until the stars evaporate
by rose-tinted-bones
Summary: The aftermath is always disconcerting, but Shiro and Keith try to reconnect after Eriadu and Yavin. Some things need to be said, and some need to be acknowledged before they can heal - and, as they say, it's always darkest before the dawn. A Star Wars AU.


**until the stars evaporate**

* * *

 **AN:** Epilogue fic for " **Interstellar light years from you".** Highly recommended to read that first.

Trigger/Content warning:Graphic depictions of violence, injury and torture, body dysphoria, blood, implied death

* * *

Naboo at dawn was something else. When the sky is a startling blue-black, just the faintest cleave of violet over the horizon and a blanket of stars across the sky, it almost made Keith feel like he was back in Corsin, feet in the sand as he pushes the jacket up closer against his face—trying to remember the way it still smelled of cedar, Shiro, and how it had been a heartbreakingly wonderful moment to remember that he once had that – all of that, in his arms.

The waves of the rivers reaches his ears – a cyclical pull and push – and if Keith squinted his eyes, he can almost see the rushing of the waters against the shore. It's almost startling – perhaps, even astounding – how peaceful everything is, when the day has yet to arrive and it's just the sound of the wind against his ears, buffeting through the grass blades and flowers blooming by the riverside and the constant flow of the stream. There are no starfighters rushing past the skies – their yellow and chrome gleam whizzing past – and there are no footsteps of booted stormtroopers marching in tandem, blaster rifles in hand, dark glass-plated helmets glaring at them.

If he closes his eyes, allows himself to get lost to the sounds and the cadence of his own breathing, it's almost as if he can forget that this could have not been his life – one way or the other. If Keith bites his lip and reach with his left hand to graze the mottled skin of the wrist on his write and pretend it was nothing but sand against his own heartbeat, he can almost believe that he wasn't made for destruction. Had been made. Had.

But things are different, and it wouldn't do well to linger on the past and what had happened, the choices made—

For so long, he's let himself be dragged away by the currents—hurtling through space and crashing against each asteroid on the way to his own ruin—and he's allowed himself to cut through the chase and pedal backwards, only to find gravity pushing him in reverse and he loses control of it all.

For so long, he's allowed himself to find repose in every bubble up the froth of whatever kriffing liquid was served to him in a durasteel mug, handing over dirty credits with a scar-littered fingers trembling with the need to forget, to _not remember,_ to ignore the burning ache in his chest that was not just half a person, or half a soul but an entire galaxy put together.

For so long, he's allowed himself to wake up – scream trapped in his throat, always trapped, unable to escape, unable to claw its way out from under his skin and unable to rip the fragile blanket open – in the inky darkness, a hand on the cold steel wall of the corvette and his own bile-stained shirt over him, vomit and blood and everything ugly in him knocking at the back of his teeth, itching to be let out.

For so long, he's allowed himself to look at the slowly-healing burn that runs from wrist to arm, at the ugly scarring – the white-tan clumps that seemed more and more like ugly festering boils on his skin, and even though the barcode is gone, the chip is burnt, it still feels like he's carrying a mark of everything that was wrong in the galaxy – and believe that this was the only thing he was ever worthy of.

—and it took everything and nothing for him to realize that he was just pulling the earth around him to for his own bed, six feet under, dust and soil and broken shards down his throat.

A line of gold – singular and unceasing – cuts through the darkness, cleaving through the shadows and setting colors to the horizon – scarlet and yellow, purple and blue in the black. Naboo's sun rises in between the mountains, and gold bathes the fields into a paint of green. Slowly, Keith feels the warmth on his face – and the rivers turn clear and blue, and the flowers flutter in the wind and his eyes blink at their burn.

His heart beats once – twice – and it gallops faster than any starfighter, and his hands bunch up over the warmth on his lap and he can't help the colors lose focus, growing abstract, as his vision blurs.

The warmth in his chest – the cold seeping away from his veins and from his bones, the ebb running through the soil and out from his body – and over it has Keith breathing deeper, his whole chest heaving and he slowly lets it all out as morning arrives.

He looks down on his lap, and moves his hand over where it was resting by Shiro's cheek, and he looks at the downturn of his lashes – the fall of his hair over his eyes, the healing scar across his nose and just the reminder, the realization, that once, almost like a lifetime ago, he had lost this—lost him, so violently, and he had pulled the trigger.

Shiro shifts in his lap, the weight moving, and like clockwork, taupe-grey eyes open, still edged in sleep, but they map over the receding darkness to find Keith's eyes, and a smile grows on Shiro's lips.

"Good morning," he whispers – voice hoarse and low, barely above the din of the rushing stream. Keith hears it pounding in his head and battering against his heart. Funny, it doesn't feel painful.

Funny, it feels like a breath of fresh air.

"Good morning, love." He whispers back, and Shiro's tight-lipped smile – honest and bright and fiery – puts even Naboo's own sun to shame.

He'll be okay, Keith knows. They'll both be okay. Maybe not now, not later, but someday soon. He has hope.

* * *

The cave is cold — damp — and it sticks to his skin and bones like another layer, another slab of meat that's far heavier than anything he can manage. It's not much — his uniform was broken and torn, the top armor shot and burnt and had been more of a deadweight than actual protection and he had abandoned it in his escape from the battalion near the beachhead.

Keith doesn't know how long it's been — if it's been days or weeks or months. His stomach gnawed something awful, claws against his skin from the inside out and he pressed the blaster rifle tighter against it, willing it to die down. His lip is bruised and torn, and he tastes his blood and something shitty — ugly, like a festering wound — but he ignores it. The iron, sour tang of his blood doesn't do anything against the hunger, but it distracts him from it enough not to hit the butt of the rifle against his belly in an effort to quiet the growling.

He shivers, and he settles his back against the wall, feels the wetness of the moss and the outgrowth seep through his flimsy undershirt and settles against his open wounds. It stings — and itches — but there were worse things out there, all in shades of black and white and red, carrying blaster rifles and willing to put a bullet in anyone's head — child or no.

His eyes are tired and droopy — Keith is exhausted — but he keeps them open, punches his cheek when he feels like he's about to pass out. It was too dangerous to fall asleep, not when the Imperial battalion hasn't left yet and it was only a matter of time before they come upon a runaway with no armor and fucked-up rifle for defense.

His vision flags from time to time, the shadows creeping in from the peripheries and it takes banging his head against the metal barrel for him to keep them open.

Keith coughs, feels the wrack of it up his throat and deep in his chest. There's no blood in his mouth when it's over — and that's a good thing, right? No internal damage? All he has to worry is his stomach and, maybe, the open wounds of the blaster shots that got through the armor when he made his escape. There's one on his shoulder that had burned — black and brown, the skin around it charred and molten, painfully red — but he doesn't really feel anything about it. Something whitish started to grow on it — he lost count when — but he ignores it, more focused on just breathing and keeping quiet and not complaining when the smell of his own piss and shit reach his nose.

He blinks rapidly, trying to dispel the growing shadows in the sides, squinting at the rain falling outside, the pitter-patter on the shrubs, the sound hypnotic.

Something rustles — bushes, maybe leaves and it's heavier than the rain — and the fear and terror shoot up in his veins. Keith grabs the rifle tighter, pushing back against the wall, trying to hide himself in the shadows. There's a dead end behind him, and the low light seeped into the entrance of the cave but if he kept himself quiet — if he stopped breathing — maybe he can pass off as invisible.

His stomach makes a sound. Keith grits his teeth and rams the butt of his rifle against his belly.

It hurts. It fucking hurts — the steel edge felt like a bludgeon against a sore wound, and his legs start to falter at the abuse but he breathes through his nose and ignores the tracks of the tears running down his cheeks. The pain didn't matter. The bleeding wounds didn't matter. The black-blue bruise growing on the skin of his stomach didn't matter.

He wanted to live. He didn't want to die. Those were the only things that mattered.

The rustle comes again, closer, and Keith backs up even when he has nowhere to go, banging his head against the rocky fixture. It fucking hurts, adds to the pounding headache and the coldness slithering through his veins and he feels something wet trickle down his nape.

He doesn't care, gripping the rifle tight. He can't see for shit, the light growing brighter as his vision loses focus, blurring at the sides. A part of his brain, if it's still alive, thinks of sleep deprivation but he can't fall asleep, not now, not when he's unsure if he'll ever wake up again.

He doesn't want to die.

He hears footsteps and he stills, heart beating loud and fast against his ribs, and he's not _sure_ — he's not sure if it's real, if the footsteps he's hearing are real or if it's a figment of his imagination, one more hallucination in the few he's had lately—along with the slip of steel and the targeting laser of a blaster that had him shutting his eyes and curling into a ball, a flash of white and black and the relentless terror of stormtroopers standing at the entrance of the cave or the image of a four-year old human boy's head exploding as Keith shoots, over and over and over—

Keith sucks in a gasp as he hears voices, chatter, and he ignores the floating spots in the darkness as he backs himself, molds himself to the wall and his grip on the blaster is so painful, so tight that his broken nails bleed.

Two — no, three, er, four? — forms appear in his vision, cutting through the rain and the light and Keith feels his legs tremble, the metal of the blaster rifle pressed against his front — in between his legs and against his cheek — and it's not, he's not going to be able to fight them off. Maybe one, had he more strength and a working rifle, but four? No, he was going to die.

He was going to die.

The thought lances through him like acid and bile, and it's the acute-sharp pain that's half his body starting from his chest and growing outwards like a virus.

The forms are muddled, hazy — their outlines indecipherable — and Keith squints, trying to look out for the draw of the rifle, the crimson flash from the barrels and the sharp heat cutting through his skin, the same heat he's seen take people's lives away — the same heat that escapes his own rifle when the prisoners are rounded up and made to face the wall, Keith's own scope aiming at their heads—

Except—nothing happens.

Keith is stone-still, barely breathing, vision nearing black and his form held up only by the stone protrusion behind him. He steps on a few pebbles on the ground – the crunching noise turning the air in his lungs into ice as the forms move, and he's not sure if it's a gun aimed at him or it's just his paranoia, but he feels the sweat and the blood trickle down his temples.

He hears one of them speak – the voice is cold and unkind – but the words are muddled and lost in the din of the rain and the drumbeat in his head. Something is raised – and he squints to see the outline of a pistol and he tries to dig himself deeper into the wall behind him, a sob crawling out of his lips before he can bite it back.

The sound comes again and Keith inches back, the black-chrome barrel of his rifle against his lips – pressing cold into his skin – as he tries to stop his form from shivering. The rock bites into his back, sharp and painful, but he doesn't notice it – or it doesn't really matter at the moment, not when laser fire could come at any second.

He doesn't know what happens – what _they're_ doing, but one of the forms step closer, and it's larger than the rest, tall, and the image has chrome-plated stormtrooper armor and a black cloak lined in scarlet over a shoulder and Keith's whimper is locked in his chest, trapped in his throat as the rock behind digs deeper. He can't – he doesn't want to die, but if the form is who he thinks it is, then—

There's a gurgling, echoing noise in his head, and he's not sure if it's the rain or his own heartbeat pounding like a laser cannon or just his own paranoia—

And it takes him a moment – when the form, and the rest do not move, just stands easy before him – that the noise is someone talking. Words.

"—speak Basic? Let's talk, okay? I'm not going to hurt you, alright. I promise you." The voice is speaking in Basic – and it's masculine, sounds kind and consoling but Keith shakes his head, hair in his eyes and the ache of his belly nibbling on the inside. His legs are still shaking, and he doesn't think he can make a run for it – not at his condition.

"Nobody here is going to hurt you. I promise." The voice says again, and Keith feels his eyes _burn_ at the softness of it, no line of tension, but he can't – he can't fall for it. Too many times he's seen other cadets fall for the trick, for the easy smiles and the warm grins and he's seen those cadets littered in blaster fire from their own classmates' rifles – for being weak enough to want kindness, weak enough to want charity. For being weak.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I promise."

The words come again, and the sob in his throat hitches as the blaster rifle begins to rattle against the rock, his hands stuttering as he holds in the terrified cry, reigning it back into his chest. He can't. He can't be weak. They'll hurt him. They always do. They always want to hurt him.

But—

The man continues to speak, repeating the words and his voice is patient and warm – and it does something to Keith, does something inside his chest that is both painful and pleasant—

The others behind him – the three others – they haven't moved, and the blurriness fades a bit as he stifles his fear, and he sees rifles drawn to the ground, lowered and—

The man – the one who stepped forward – his hands are raised to the level of his head and his blaster, if it's what Keith sees, is resting against his waist and it would have been so easy for them to draw their guns and shoot him and he was just one man with a broken rifle, a shot cartridge and anyone with military experience worth their weight in fucking gold could see that he was holding a glorified stick and the barcode is distinct against his skin—

But they don't shoot. They keep their weapons pointed to the ground.

"I promise you, nobody here is going to hurt you. We want to help you. I want to help you."

The man continues and Keith inches a closer – heart in his throat and his wounds burning – and they don't shoot at him, even when the simple act elicited a cry of terror from his lips, expecting the blaster fire.

The colors align themselves – the light seeping into the cave isn't saturated, blinding him, and the darkness creeping in from all around starts to flicker in and out – and there's none of the familiar stormtrooper colors, not the regular ones and not the ominous black of the special ops division.

The group before him is dressed in jackets of varying colors and degrees of wear, from taupe to brown and there's no insignia, no identifying mark on them. Standard Imperial Army protocol on encounter with deserters was immediate liquidation – no questions asked.

They don't shoot him, and the man before him – the one with the helmet on continues to speak in soft, patient tones, hands still held up – open – and there's a smile on his face, gentle and tender and—

Keith blinks rapidly, his entire body hurting and bruised and battered as his heart bangs against his ribs painfully. Can he? Can he trust them?

Can they trust him?

Can they see who he was and _what_ he was?

He knows he doesn't look much. His armor is broken, whatever remained of it pooled around his waist in a pathetic attempt to keep the cold away. His bare arms are littered in scars – old and new – and the wounds are festering and infected, and he hasn't eaten and slept in days – _weeks_ – he doesn't know, know, know—

It'd be too easy to shoot him and leave him for dead. Nobody would miss him. Nobody cared. Both his parents didn't – if they had, he wouldn't be here. He would have never been at the Garrison in Balmorra. He wouldn't have to live like this.

The realization – and the sickening fact of it all seeping in through his skin and burning into his bones – has him stepping forward again, taking everything he can with him – and there's not much. Not much at all.

If they're going to kill him, he just wants it done quickly. He doesn't – he doesn't want to hurt anymore. He's tired of hurting.

"There, come on, I'm not going to hurt you. You can trust me, alright?"

Keith can't. He knows he can't – but, some part in him, some small one that hasn't died from all the horror the Empire made him do wonders – and hopes.

"Good. I'm not going to hurt you, alright?" the man speaks again – still in that same even tone and Keith doesn't know how long he's been saying the same words but they haven't lost a beat of their patience, and it's more than – more than anything Keith's ever known and he doesn't, he doesn't know what to do with it, what to do with the other's gentleness. "You just need medical help. I can help you. Would you like that?"

 _Would you like that?_

Choice.

Something Keith has never had before.

He doesn't know why – why his eyes prickle and why his chest feels like exploding and why the sounds he's been trying hard to muffle and beat down escape – at the word. He doesn't know why and he can't help the almost-violent shaking of his shoulders as he ducks his head, trying to creep forward.

His legs are slowly giving away, and he's not even standing straight – he's not even sure of what he's doing, half-curled and half-crawling towards the man with the kind smile, like reaching him would be an answer – an end, one way or the other – to the desolation and the overpowering terror in his veins, the voices in his head playing at his weaknesses and his fears, the faces of all the people he's killed mocking him for his lack of strength—

Light reaches him, and his eyes feel like they've been set aflame, the tears running down his cheeks as he looks up at the form – the square line of his jaw, the warmth of his taupe eyes under the helmet and the patient smile that hasn't left his lips—

"You're doing well. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise. You can trust me."

The words are soft – fragile – but they crash into Keith with the force of a corvette, and air is sucked in, harshly, as his vision flags and the blaster in his hands fall – clattering against the ground – his legs finally giving way and his entire body shutting down—

He expects to hit the earth, feel the sharpness of the stone cut into him the way so many things had—

Darkness floods his vision as his eyes close, but he doesn't feel the pain. What he feels – before he faints, the exhaustion finally reaping its reward for the days he's kept it at bay – are arms around his form, warm and gentle and a sturdy body against his, ear pressed against skin and he hears a _heartbeat_ and the words against his earlobe are airy – almost ghostly – and washing over him.

"I got you, okay. I got you."

Keith believes him – and he lets himself fade into weary slumber.

* * *

Shiro hears the whimper first. It's almost inaudible, muffled against the blankets and it sounds pitiful – weak, and if he closed his eyes and thought of something else, he wouldn't be able to notice it. He still does. Partly because being a soldier isn't a one-time thing – moving from the front lines and back to general non-action doesn't change the war-tempered instinct, or the intuition – and he was always a light sleeper, his eyes blearily opening as the whimper comes again. Another part of it is because he knows where the sound is coming from—and Shiro leans up on his elbow.

Keith's back is to him, a thin shirt over his form, the blankets down on his lap. His skin is cold to the touch, and Shiro feels the shiver of the form under his arm.

Some nights, it's just a cry at the edge of the tightly-bitten lips.

Some nights, it's a scream trapped in his throat.

Some nights – the almost- _rare_ nights – Keith merely turns in sleep and presses his face against Shiro's collarbone.

"Keith," he whispers – voice low – and he runs a hand lightly down the other's arm, aware of the slight turn of his head and the movement of his lips, mouthing soundless words, and the furrow of his brows beneath the dark hair.

Keith doesn't wake up – and, on some nights, it takes a while for Shiro's words to sink in, but it doesn't bother him. A year and a half ago, he would never imagine that he'd wake up at night and find the press of dark hair and closed-purple eyes against his skin. It would have been too painful to expect, to hope, when the last memory he had of Keith was red blaster fire in his visions and the hurtling starboard side of the _Kerberos_ getting nearer and nearer.

"Baby, can you hear me? It's me, Shiro." He tries, still keeps his voice low – he wants to lean down and press his lips against Keith's lobe, wrap his arm tight around the other's waist and pull him close, close until the whimpers and the trembling stopped and the pain across Keith's face faded - and keeps his presence steady, holding to the warmth of the other's arm.

It'd be so easy to pull him close until their ends melded, but Shiro abstains. He doesn't know how Keith will react – and it's not like Shiro's been there in the almost two-year absence of Keith's presence at his side.

"Keith, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Not anymore." The words are trite – Shiro knows that – but he says them anyway, voices them aloud even if they're at a volume barely above the silence. He says them – because they're true.

He's not going anywhere, not even through the fire and the blood and the tragedy. Not even after what happened – the blaster fire, the white-hot, blinding pain of his right arm crushed in between the starfighter's hull and the gunship's side and _torn_ apart, and the image of a silver-chrome corvette crashing into a Star Destroyer. It's more than the promise he gave to an honorable Galran, or to the Rebellion he had pledged his body and soul to.

Keith continues to tremble in his arms, and he turns his head, dark hair stuck to his skin in sweat, his cheeks flushed as a scared, _terrified_ whine climbs up his throat. Shiro settles with pressing his lips against the skin of Keith's shoulder made bare by the neckline of the shirt – he's still too thin, at times, and the image cuts at Shiro like a vibroblade – and whispers his name over and over.

"I love you. Always. That's never changed." Shiro continues, gliding his lips against the cold, trembling skin as Keith's brows furrow even tighter, turning to Shiro and pressing close, seeking warmth – seeking an escape from the nightmares that he's refused to dull with the alcohol – and maybe the words do cut through the dreams, the memories and the ghosts and maybe it's just fate and coincidence, or maybe it's both that and none of a tall.

The shivering stops – the whimpering ceases – but Shiro continues to press kisses, soft and tender, against the exposed skin as Keith breathes through his mouth – gasping – and he feels a hand run up Shiro's bare chest and settles over his heart.

He feels the fingers play over his skin, light and tremulous – almost hesitant, as if disbelieving, as if they're unable to comprehend the warm, living skin under the pads. Shiro doesn't stop his ministrations – his lips glide over the edge of Keith's collarbone near his shoulder, his own hand settles on the other's waist, pressing lightly – and he doesn't say anything when Keith presses his face against his chest, over his heart, and he feels the wetness on his skin.

His eyes are wide open, tired and there's barely any light seeping into the room through the curtains, but he can still recognize the way Keith molds himself against Shiro as the tears come – and the sucked-in gasps and pants as he tries to silence his crying.

Shiro knows – from experience, from waking up in bed and into inky darkness with his nightmares locked in his chest and its ugly hands scratching at the insides of his throat – that, sometimes, people just need to break and let loose. Shiro knows that intimately – knows that he has to be the one person to bring Keith back, to hold on to him and make him realize that there's still a place to go back to.

"Let it out, baby. Go on." He says, voice even as he moves, lips pressed against the crown of Keith's head as the other continues to sob against his chest, and even if Shiro's eyes sting with something fierce – more painful than the violent loss of his arm, almost as painful as the Keith-shaped hole that had festered in his chest for the last year and half – he doesn't cry. He blinks them away and pulls Keith close, whispering his name over and over – reminding him that Shiro hasn't gone.

His hair is up his face and nose but Shiro doesn't care, and his hands rove over the fragile shoulders that have held the weight as heavy as an entire planet for so long and if this is what he can do – if this the only thing he _can_ do, then he'll fucking do it for as long as Keith needs him to, not when he knows now what the price of the blaster fire on his own ship's engines was.

He can't change the past, and he can't erase the pain and the horror embedded and stitched into every scar littering Keith's body – even if he wants to, even if he'd fucking storm an army bare handed and by himself just to do so, just to erase the _unfairness_ burning in his chest as his thumb runs over a part of mottled and rough skin so numerous, so expansive that it burns to touch.

"I love you so much. That's never changed, and it never will. Believe me, baby." The words escape his lips, and they're true – always will be true – and Shiro presses them against the onyx mane, and the grip Keith has on his chest is tight – the fingers pressing into his skin – but it doesn't matter, not when the whimpers start to slow down and the sobs lessen in intensity, and the ice-cold grip around Shiro's heart starts to loosen.

He doesn't know – not always – how Keith reacts.

Some nights, he stills so hard and his eyes turn cold and he presses himself into the shadows of the corners of the room, willing himself to become invisible and the weight on Shiro's chest feels like it's grown to the size of Naboo itself.

Some nights, he nods and whispers the words back and digs himself – _carves_ – a place into Shiro's chest like it's the only thing in sight, in the horizon and Shiro can only hold him close, beating back his own tears.

Some nights, Keith raises his head and looks at him – his eyes glazed and terrified, half-asleep – and his lips part and he whispers what he can remember of the dream and Shiro has to breathe deep, suck the air in and keep it in his lungs, or he'll break as Keith recounts the horrors he's had to face on his own, a ghostly voice trailing the air.

Shiro leans close and presses his lips against the crown, letting Keith know he's here.

"Don't leave me."

The voice is barely audible – barely _there –_ but Shiro hears the edge, the fragility and the glass-like brittleness in the total silence, and his heart clenches so painfully, so tightly that it's a wonder he's not gasping for respite.

"I won't—"He can't—he can't mask the agony in his voice. Shiro tries – he tries to hide it, not to make it obvious that he's walking on thin ice around Keith's emotions because he only wants to him to be okay, not to hurt and not to be terrified anymore. "I won't leave you. Never."

The words don't sound enough – and, on some days, they're almost, always not enough – but maybe it works, or maybe they _are_ enough because Keith doesn't say anything anymore. He doesn't pull back, pushing himself away from Shiro's arms and scampering back as he falls to the floor and backpedals until he hits the wall, eyes wide and terrified, like a cornered animal—

And he doesn't claw his way into Shiro, frenzied and broken—

Keith settles against his arms, breathing deep, pressing his nose against Shiro's bare chest as he arranges his arms around the other, a mechanical hand atop the flesh, and Keith looks up at him – purple-mauve eyes that had haunted his every waking moment since Perlemian, since the day he woke up without Keith by his side –

"I love you, too." Keith says – whispers – and the words aren't a confirmation as they are a question – like Keith's trying to reclaim something, remind himself of it and Shiro—

He can only say it back, before leaning close and settling his forehead against Keith's, adjusting his weight as Keith closes his eyes and tries to go back to sleep.

Sometimes, it's enough.

Shiro doesn't fall asleep after, his eyes tiredly roving over the slant of Keith's nose or the curl of his hair. He doesn't know how to fight shadows and he doesn't know how to pull the fears out from Keith and let them go. The best he could do is just hold him close, sand in his throat and in the tracts of his lungs, and pray that it's enough.

* * *

There are voices echoing under the film of sleep – soft, sometimes fading in and out – and Shiro doesn't understand the words, not yet anyway. Sometimes, it takes moments for him to kick his brain into working – the muddled gibberish forming actual trains of thought – and for him to start hearing the words for what they are.

"—stable for now. He's awake for a few seconds, at most. Still, it's the best we've had since the bacta tank dip." Shiro notes that the voice is Pidge's – she sounds tired, weary, but he can recognize the lilt of her voice anywhere.

He wants to turn his head and open his eyes, but the right side of his body is still aching, and the sleep still lingering at the edges of his consciousness was tempting—

"That's good. Good." The next voice is Lance's, he knows, but it's not the loud, energetic kind that he often hears. It's low, downturn and hoarse – and there's the same thread of tension underlining it the way it did with Pidge's. "I thought—gods, I thought we were going to lose him."

Lance's voice trembles – the words shaky and fragile – and Shiro hasn't heard that tone from him in a long while – Lance was confident and loud, idealistic. Even against odds, he never sounded like he was close to faltering, close to breaking – the way he does _now._

"It's okay, Lance. He's okay, now. He will be." Pidge reassures the other, her voice washing over from his side, and the tremulous, airy way she sounds, like she's come from crying, has Shiro frowning – groaning as the sleep fades and reality settles in.

The pain on his right side is still there, tumbling over his muscles, but it's dulled and he grits his teeth as he turns his head, a hiss escaping his lips as a flurry of noise and movement pass over what he can see in slit-thin lines of what he can see.

Shiro's head is hurting, a pounding inside _and_ outside – under his skin and over his muscles – and all he can remember is crashing into the _Kerberos,_ remembering laser fire on his engines.

He groans, eyes opening – only to shut, tight, at the fluorescent lights overhead, searing into them. He feels a hand on his face, wiping the sweat away and he hears Lance calls for the medical droid.

"Shiro, can you hear me?" Pidge asks, her voice urgent and Shiro nods, unable to bite back the pained sounds escaping his throat as he turns, feels the mattress under him and the blanket over him – paper thin and ineffective against the cold. "Good. That's good. Shiro, can you say my name? Do you remember me?"

It takes a while for Shiro to open his eyes – to even blink them open as they adjust to the brightness of the room – but when he does, he manages to catch sight of Pidge's chestnut hair down her cheeks, dark circles under her hazel eyes, before he closes them – relieved at the absence of light. His voice cracks, and his throat is dry but he can make his throat work at least. "Pidge."

His response brings out a stuttering laugh of relief from her, and Shiro wants to smile at that in spite of the pain, a slight upturn of his lips the best he could manage as he shifts again, his balance oddly shifting as he moves his right arm—

Except the weight is different, lighter and less nimble, and he can't feel anything from it even when it presses on to his lap. He hears Lance return to the room – or the infirmary, maybe – and Shiro blinks his eyes open again, catching dark skin and the worried gaze.

"Shiro," he's never heard his own name sound so delicate on _Lance's_ lips, of all people. "You know me, right? You haven't—?"

His voice disappears when he moves his lips, but it forms around the other's name before he swallows – feels the starch-dryness of his throat. Lance lets out a relieved breath, wobbly, and Shiro closes his eyes, laying his head back down before he hears Pidge lean closer.

"Here, Shiro," it takes most of his energy to open his eyes, his muscles heavy and tight, and see the din of the metal cup Pidge is holding near his lips. He leans up – what he can manage – and Pidge presses the cup against his lips, cool water sliding down his parched throat. He drinks slowly, aware of the roughness of his throat and Pidge doesn't let up until he finishes the entire cup, leaning back as the shards and the pin-pricks are dulled.

"Thanks." His voice isn't back up to how it usually is, but it's not breaking at every syllable.

Beeping noises and a mechanical voice reaches his ears, and he sees the medical assistance droid float into the room, multiple arms moving about as Pidge steps back, letting it near him. Scans and levels are pulled up from the screen set beside his bed, and Shiro tries to keep his eyes open as the holo-films are projected on to air.

There are heavy footfalls, and he turns to find Hunk at the door way, panting. "Shiro!"

His voice is loud, echoing in the room, and only Pidge's glare has him apologizing. Shiro doesn't mind, trying to lift his lips up into a smile as Hunk's eyes rove over his body. His vision still flickers in and out, the outlines of his men swaying, but he keeps them open, turning to the droid as it begins to talk.

" _Overall subject strength is at sixty-four percent. Fatigue is expected."_ The female robotic voice echoes in the quiet, hollow and void of emotion, but he sees Pidge nod, looking back at him, concerned. Shiro understands the words, knows them, but they don't really sink in – he settles for letting Pidge take note of it. _"Recommended duration of infirmary recuperation is eight Thilan rotations and…"_

Shiro's attention drifts away from the droid, knowing he can trust Pidge to take it all in, as he lets his eyes roam around the room – the light is hazy and too-bright in certain splotches, but he can make out Lance's crossed arms and bit lip, and he can see Hunk's constant twitching, the smile on his face somewhat shaky as they make eye contact.

It suddenly dawns on him that they're missing one person.

"Keith." He manages to get out, the cut on his lip stinging as he mouths around the name. He's looking in the spaces between his men – trying to find any sign of dark hair or purple-mauve eyes and his lanky form – that he doesn't notice the tension in the air growing, or the stone-stillness the others had become. "Wh—where's Keith?"

The droid stops talking, and the utter quiet that follows has Shiro finally noting the angry line of tension on Lance's lips, or the icy haze over Pidge's eyes. Hunk isn't even looking at him, head facing the ground, his hands bunched into tight fists over his sides. No one makes a sound.

Shiro tries again, voice more stable. "Where's Keith?"

The others keep silent, and the hesitation in his chest starts to turn into worry at the absence of his fiancé. He tries not to let it grow, tries to let it not seep into his voice – there must be an explanation, maybe Keith's somewhere else, maybe in the hangar or with his starfighter or he's asleep and isn't awake – and tries to hold on to those thoughts, even though a part of him whispers _if he's fine, why isn't he here, if he's okay, why aren't they saying anything—_

"Where's Keith?" He asks again, voice gaining an edge and he watches Hunk flinch and Lance grit his teeth. The sleepiness starts to drift, and even the exhaustion and the dull ache start to wear down as worry and irritation at the reticence brings awareness to the forefront.

"Lance, answer me. Where's Keith?" It's not a question – it was an order, and Shiro sees the stony expression Lance has on his face before he turns to Shiro. He hates pulling rank on his men, but sometimes he has to – especially when the most vocal of their group becomes uncharacteristically quiet.

"Keith—"Shiro's eyes widen at the venom in Lance's voice when he says the name. He shifts his head against the pillow, turning to see him better. Lance shuts his eyes, the furrow in his brows are angry, and the brown color of them when they meet Shiro's are flashing with rage. "Keith's not here."

"What—?" He doesn't finish his sentence, his throat going dry and he frowns at Lance. He knows Keith and Lance often butt heads at the start, but they've been on good terms lately – their banter growing friendlier – and the sliver of disgust and hatred that Lance can't keep out of his eyes throws Shiro off. He swallows again, unable to keep the worry from his voice. "Where is he?"

Lance refuses to answer, turning his head away, and his jaw is quivering in anger. Hunk still refuses to look at him, so Shiro turns to Pidge. There's a hint of fear under the iciness, and Shiro makes for it. The worry in his chest is starting to grow tighter with every second they refuse to tell him about Keith, and his voice breaks when he asks her. "Where's Keith?"

"He—"Pidge starts, high-pitched and reedy, before she ducks her head, hair falling into her eyes. Shiro shakes his head, begging her – pleading for an answer – as he tries again, not even bothering to hide his own fear. "Please, Pidge. Tell me."

He doesn't know what to make of their expressions – the varying slips of ire and fear – and his heart is up his throat, his mind boggling with scenarios and half-baked hypotheses and terrors taking shape as more of his memory returns—

They were in battle, evading the Imperial TIE fighters that ambushed them along the Perlemian route, and all of them had been deployed. He remembers guarding the _Kerberos_ while Lance and Hunk attacked head-on, Keith watching Shiro's flank. Keith was there, Shiro knows – he remembers the crimson starfighter streaking across the battlefield like a comet, hurtling and barreling effortlessly—

Pidge looks at him, and her brows are furrowed, biting her lips. Shiro shakes his head – not wanting to give form to the fear in his head. Keith couldn't—he couldn't have—he was fast and skilled, and the TIE fighters couldn't _touch_ him, Shiro saw it, there's no way Keith could have been in their crosshairs. He was too talented – far more skilled than most give him credit for, and with enough time and training, he could even surpass Shiro but he can't—

Maybe the way he shakes his head and the way his eyes widen in worry, his lip trembling, does something to Pidge because she breathes in deep, and the iciness cracks and he sees an apology in her eyes. No, this was something else – Keith didn't die, if he had, then they wouldn't act like this, he knows his men – they'd tell him up front—

"Is he—did he get hit?" He asks, desperate for confirmation, his muscles straining as he leans his head up. Pidge shakes her head, her shoulders tense. "Then—where—is he?"

Pidge's glasses gleam in the fluorescent light, and he can't see her eyes through them as she turns to him. Her voice is shaky, but her tone is hard and unforgiving and Shiro doesn't know why it sounds like that until her words sink in. "He's with the Empire."

For a while, Shiro stares at her – the words taking root – and it's only the movement of his perception that tells him he's shaking his head, disbelieving. The worry in his chest turns into blown-out fear as the thought of Keith – _his_ Keith, bright purple eyes and hesitant smiles and a gentle heart, back in the hands of the people that had forced him to do terrible things, forced him to kill people, man or child, and forced him to relive every action everytime he closes his eyes – the thought of it all has him trying to stand, his muscles _burning_ and complaining at the strain as he tries to breathe around the ice in his chest— "No, no, no. Gotta—get him—out."

His entire body screams at him to stop, and he can't hide the pained grimace on his face, or the whimpers escaping his lips as he tries to sit up – and he ignores the alarm on the other's faces, the droid's rapid beeping, as Lance and Pidge try to steady and put him back to bed—

All of it isn't important – not when all he can think of is Keith – _Keith –_ in chains, surrounded by stormtroopers, and he can't think of anything but what they'll do to him, to an Imperial Army deserter and he knows, Keith's told him, that they kill deserters when they catch them and if Keith is still alive, he was taken alive – then, that would mean torture and—

Shiro shakes his head, muttering 'no, no, no,' as Lance puts a hand on his shoulder and tells him to get back in bed. "Can't. Have to—have to save him."

He can't think about it – the thought of Keith being tortured, being put in so much pain all by himself, and Shiro too far away, he doesn't know where to go to, where to go to save him but he has to, he has to get him back, he can't bear the idea of Keith in their hands and—

"Why—why didn't you save him?" Escapes his lips – the words pained and angry – as he faces Lance. It's unfair, he knows, to say that and he has no idea – still can't remember – what happened but he knows, he knows his men and he knows they'll do everything to protect each other the way they had in the past – even with Keith – but the thought still rears it's ugly head and he seethes. "Why?"

Lance pushes him back down – forcefully – and Shiro grunts as the exhaustion keeps him from sitting up immediately. The grip on his shoulder is tight, but Lance doesn't seem to notice as he looks at Shiro in the eyes – and he sees nothing but hatred glaring back.

"He betrayed us, Shiro." Lance growls, and Shiro stares.

"Lance, this is not the time—"Pidge starts, but the other pilot turns to her, fuming.

"No, he needs to know. Keeping it from him isn't right."

Hunk's voice carries over the harsh whispers and it echoes in Shiro's ears as he stares at the side of Lance's face, all thought wiped clean as the word _betray_ continues to play over and over. "We know, Lance, but maybe not now—"

"What—"he manages to get out, and three faces turn to him. "What are you saying, Lance?"

Lance pauses – the ire and bitterness in his eyes clouded by fear and pain, maybe because Shiro's voice had grown so soft it could barely be heard – but he wipes his face clean of emotion as he continues. "He betrayed us, Shiro. He shot at your engines and caused you to crash into the _Kerberos._ If we hadn't been there to flank you, the Star Destroyer would have destroyed you."

Shiro—shakes his head, and he continues to shake his head as the final piece of his memory returns, and all he can feel is the blood turning cold under his skin as he remembers the targeting radar of his starfighter blaring red and turning to find himself in Keith's crosshairs, seeing a flash of red laser fire on his tail.

"No, no, that—that's not true."

His words are feeble, hollow – and there's no fire to his voice as he refuses to believe what he's hearing, what he's _remembering,_ and all he could think about is Keith and his smile and the scent of Naboo's waters as he slips a ring into Shiro's finger, promising him forever.

No, it was impossible. It can't be. Keith couldn't have betrayed them – betrayed him.

He can only see Keith, eyes haunted, as he looks at Shiro and tells him of every person he's killed, every life he's taken at the command of the Empire, every time he's had to break a piece of his soul as he pulls the trigger and how he tells Shiro all of this, doesn't leave a single detail out, as he looks close to breaking, fear and disgust aimed towards his own self in his eyes and Shiro could only pull him close, tell him he's more than what the Empire made him.

He shakes his head again, turning to feel for the ring in his right hand, to remind himself that Keith would never go back to them – not willingly – not after everything, all the promises and the hopes, the dreams they've had, he can't believe it—

He turns his gaze and when he raises his right arm, he sees only a robotic arm instead of a real one.

"What—"

Pidge shakes her head, eyes gleaming. "I'm so sorry, Shiro. We did our best but we couldn't—we couldn't save it."

This was—

This is a nightmare.

His chest is tight – like ice and tar surrounding his heart instead of blood – and he can't breathe right, can't breathe at all and his hands – no, _hand_ – is trembling and he can't look away, and the metal shines under the light and there's no ring and Lance's words echo in his head as he mutters the same thing over and over, and he doesn't hear Pidge telling him to relax, to breathe and how can he—?

How can he relaxwhen his right arm is gone and only an artificial limb meets his gaze?

How can he even breathe when the thought of Keith gone – cut out from his life, covered in the colors of black and white – and everything that had pushed them closer – finding Keith in Rishi, seeing him grow and come out of his haunted shell, found the brightness lurking deep in the purple eyes as he flies faster and higher above Dantooine's plains – if he believes Lance's words, if he even _thinks_ of believing in them, he can't – he doesn't know how he could go on and—

He has to find him. He has to. It's the only way. The only way for him to know – to really make sure and to confirm. He won't believe them – he refuses to. He'll only believe if Keith tells it to his face, if he sees it in Keith's eyes and, until then, he won't. He won't take it.

He has to find him.

" _Sir, you need to relax."_ The droid speaks as he tries to sit up again, forcing his muscles to ignore the pain, forcing himself to ignore the absence of his right arm, and he grunts and groans as Lance and Hunk push him back down, telling him to calm down – he shakes his head, he refuses to calm down – and Pidge is saying his name, over and over and he doesn't feel anything but pain as he grabs with his right hand for leverage, the joints moving and the pain lancing up his arm in frissons—

"Shiro, please, you need _rest._ " Pidge says again, stepping back as the droid floats closer, and it's not until he feels a prick against his bare neck does he realize what's happened. He turns to it, trying to grab it but it flies out of his grasp, and he ends up reaching for his neck with his left, feeling around the entry of the needle—

His vision starts to flag as whatever he was injected in brings the exhaustion back, his eyelids drooping as he continues to mutter, continues to push at the hands against his chest and shoulder and he only sees snippets of the devastation on Lance and Hunk's faces, the tear-lined fear on Pidge's and he shakes his head—

Keith.

Keith.

Keith.

Unaware of his own muttering – Keith's name – he paws for something to hold on to as darkness starts to cover he sees, still refusing to believe what he's told – what he's remembered – he'll prove them wrong. Keith wouldn't – he would never betray them, betray him. Keith told Shiro that he loved him and Shiro had seen it – _seen_ the truth of it and he knows, but he has to find him—

His eyes close as he falls back to bed, put to sleep, and before dreamless slumber takes him, he thinks of Keith's bright-eyed smile as Shiro kisses him, the ring on his finger shining in the Naboo light.

* * *

Keith settles against the headboard, the morning light seeping through the drawn sheets, painting the room in gold. It's quiet outside – save for the rustle of the grass blades and the rushing of the nearby river, the occasional bird flying by. He rubs a hand against his eyes, wiping the last vestiges of sleep and he turns his head, lowering his hand to run through Shiro's hair.

He feels the strands, smooth against his skin and the man under shifts, pressing his face against Keith's thigh, lips parting. His eyes are closed in sleep, and Keith can see the ease of his brows, the absence of the tension apparent in the frown lines and the seam of his shoulders.

Shiro was always up before him – constantly, even from before – but with all the things happening now, Keith lets him sleep in, running a finger down his cheek. He knows Shiro was awake most of the night, if not the entirety of it, and he bites down the frown itching to grow on his face, knowing that he was the one responsible for Shiro's lack of sleep.

It's not like he wants to—

Keith knows that he has a lot of shit to deal with – crap that he's still dealing with – and it's not like he's not aware of how Shiro has always been there, by his side, through it all. It's not that he's ignorant of it, and that he's oblivious to the nightmares that plague him at every step, or the itch in his hands as his eyes rove over the room, in search of a steel flask or the slip of purple and the absence of it like a hole in his chest.

He knows.

He knows what he's going through.

He just – he just needs time. That's it. He just needs time to be okay – to be well – just for him to find even ground and start taking the first step forward. He knows that, and Shiro's been exceedingly patient with him through it, and he doesn't want the other to worry.

Shiro always worries over him – and reuniting after so long, when Keith himself looks at the other and still feels like he's dreaming, in the middle of a drunken slumber and waking up to tears on his face and the darkness – and Keith _understands_ the worry even more.

He just wishes he didn't have to be this way and every moment Shiro turns, every second he presses his nose against Keith's thigh and his hand pulls at Keith's leg as if wanting him to be closer, it just makes the wish in his heart all the more desperate.

Keith pulls Shiro's hand from his leg, settling it at the side and he inches his way off the bed, slowly. Shiro still remains asleep, his brows crinkling a bit before smoothening out, resuming sleep.

He takes one long look at Shiro – his Shiro – willing for the image of him, asleep, and at peace, to be ingrained into his head before he exits the bedroom and makes for the kitchen. A bowl of fruits rest on the center of the counter, but Keith ignores it as he makes way to the cabinets next to the food processor and the sink.

Grabbing the large bottle from the bottom shelf – the one he knows Shiro keeps for certain occasions – Keith pulls a glass and sets them both on the counter. The amber liquid inside the glass swishes with the movement, half-full, before Keith opens it and pours into the glass until it reaches the brim.

Setting the bottle aside, Keith places both hands on the counter – the full glass in the middle and he can _smell_ it, smell the alcohol seeping into the air and he closes his eyes, tight, as his hands itch—

It would be so easy, to grab the glass and put it against his lips and draw his head back. He can already imagine the burn of it down his throat – a familiar fire searing down skin – and he can already imagine the buzz and the headiness, dulling his veins and blanketing the razor-sharp bite of so many memories flickering through his mind like a kaleidoscope—

He breathes, through his nose or through his mouth and he doesn't care.

 _Be better. Be better._

He focuses on the cold of the counter under his skin, and the rushing of the wind in his ears and the way Shiro feels against his skin, the way his heartbeat sounds – a drumbeat, constant – muffled through skin and bone but real, and Keith crawls back from the precipice. "Shit."

The word is spoken quietly, without heat, and he opens his eyes to look out the window in front of him. Theed was in the distance, and he can see the palace atop the cliff, the silver-white waterfalls rushing down against the green covering the rock. The rivers and the sea in the distance gleamed blue-green, calm and effervescent. Peaceful.

He looks down on his hands – the shirt only up to his bicep and both forearms devoid of cover, and he takes in all the scars littering down them, cuts and grazes and burns. The mottled skin of the right runs from wrist to arm, and he watches the discoloration of it – raw red and white in clumps, the skin never recovering from the abuse. There's no black barcode on his wrist, at least, and the thought has him gritting his teeth.

Keith grabs the glass and pours it all down the sink, the amber sloshing against the steel – frothing – and he ignores the stench of it as he watches it disappear down the drain, every single drop gone. The bottle is set aside as he turns the condenser unit on, flushing the liquid away as he grabs the caf dispenser from the cabinet and prepares the packets.

The scent of caf broils in the room, and Keith grabs the cup once the machine stops dispensing, stilling when he turns and finding Shiro standing by the entry, watching him.

He sets the cup down on the nearby table, feeling oddly caught out and it's not until he remembers the bottle on the counter does Keith duck his head, inching away to stow it back inside the cabinet, aware of the gaze boring into his back.

When he faces the other again, Shiro's taken the steps to pull a seat and Keith follows, grabbing the cup and taking a sip. The caf is bitter against his tongue, and kriffing hot, but it was a welcome change to the familiarity of the alcohol's burn. "Thought you were still sleeping."

Shiro is looking at him – soft taupe eyes and a gentle smile that has his heart racing – before reaching out for the same cup, tenderly taking them away from Keith's fingers and it's wondrous how something mechanical – gleaming silver and onyx underneath – could feel fragile and loving against his hand, the touch like fire on his skin. He takes a sip, giving Keith that tight-lipped smile. "I was, but you left."

—and Keith can't say anything, anything that can cover – completely – how much the tightening of his chest and the shortening of his breath feels so good and painful at the words; he's never imagined this was something he could still have, not after Perlemian. The thought arcs through him, and he has to bite his lip before clumsy phrases and trite words start tumbling out, unable to convey how much he loves Shiro.

He hands the cup back, and it only trembles a bit and Keith can't help but grip the table tight, the flexibility of the right hand growing better by each day.

Keith shrugs, smiling a bit. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Shiro's voice is low – the same baritone treble, one that has never left the confines of Keith's mind – from the first time they met, to how it feels and echoes when whispered against his ear and through the grit of the comms link – and Keith can't look away from his eyes.

It's quiet between them – and, some days, it's all that is between them – but it doesn't bother Keith, not really. They've had quiet moments—from before everything. Before Perlemian. Those moments were often at the end of impromptu races on speeders down grassy plains, or watching the sun set with their feet in the water as Corellia's seas rush across the expanse.

Things are different now, and it's impossible to go back to how they were from before everything. This wasn't a pendulum, reaching back and forth, oscillating. This was an hourglass glued to the table, the grains of sand piling at the bottom, unable to fall in reverse. Once the trigger's pulled, the only thing you can do is get out of the way or get hit.

Everything else after is just standing back up.

Still—

The way Shiro smiles at him, it feels like Keith's never left, like he's never aimed his blaster at the black-purple starfighter and fired. It's the same smile he had, when Keith first learns how to do a barrel roll with his starfighter – causing a cry of surprise to come from Shiro – and the first time Keith manages to outpace Lance in their banter.

It's the same smile Shiro had when they had landed in the hanger, and he had been up in his space and Shiro placed his hands on his cheeks, gave him that smile, before leaning in to kiss him.

"I was thinking," Shiro says, watching Keith take a sip of the caf, "that we could go to the market today. Just take a look around, get some air."

Keith knows where this is coming from, and it's not that he doesn't appreciate it. He does – greatly – and Shiro has no idea how _good_ it feels to hear him say that, after all that has happened – after the betrayal and the loss – it still feels good that Shiro still cares for him.

He knows it – he knows they said the words to each other after so long, in the middle of the grieving and the loss, the memory of a corvette crashing into a Star Destroyer fresh in his mind – but it was one thing to say it, and another to mean it.

And Keith – he means it, every single word of it – means it the way the air in his lungs seem clearer now, doesn't feel like molasses and ice and ichor are coagulating in between the tracts and the veins, and that his hands are not scrubbed raw in red, finally seeing the skin underneath.

"That sounds good." He answers, and he smiles back – small, careful, but real, Keith knows it's real, knows that it slowly comes easier nowadays – and Shiro grins back, eyes twinkling, the affection clear in his eyes.

Keith feels his form freeze as Shiro reaches out with his left hand and gently brings his right hand close, pressing his lips on the inside of Keith's wrist, right over the burnt skin and where the barcode used to be. His mouth goes dry, and his eyes sting but he doesn't look away from the brilliant taupe gleaming ochre in the sunlight.

"I'm glad." Shiro says, whispering the words against the scars, pressing it against his cheek. "I'm glad."

* * *

There's no sound in the room except for his own ragged breathing, the whimpers escaping his lips as the binds around his arms pull him up, preventing him from collapsing to the ground. Keith's on his knees – naked – and he shivers at the cold, the steel cuffs pulling him up scraping against his wrists. He hisses, stilling, as the open wounds are abused.

His mind is foggy – dulled and dazed – and it takes him longer than necessary to remember his own name and where he is. His lips are cracked, bleeding and his throat is dry and he's long pissed himself – the stench of his own urine down his legs and the festering of the wounds below.

The little scraps and cuts, the pinpricks of so many needles as the interrogation droid tries to make him spit out where Shiro and the rest were – where they could possibly be after they made the jump in Perlemian, after he had pulled the trigger and blasted the engines off of Shiro's starfighter.

He doesn't know how long it's been – if it's been minutes since then, or hours, or days – and he's stopped caring, after the cutting and the burning. He doesn't have the energy to open his eyes, his own pants echoing in his ears as he tries to ignore the constant gnawing of his stomach and the on-and-off sharp pain when the wounds touch the steel of the ground, or when they scrape against the cuffs pulling him up.

His jaw hurts when he tries to move it – still recalling the boot of one of the intelligence officers landing against it as he spat at him, willing to die than admit where Shiro could be.

He can't tell them, not after what he's done—it was too much. He had to do this, to keep him safe and he can't be weak—can't be weak enough to surrender and admit, or else it will all be for nothing.

If they find out where Shiro is – where the rest of the team are – then they'll come for him with an entire army and Shiro can't fight an army—and, neither can Keith.

He cries – not the kind where the tears run down his face, but the kind that escapes his mouth as the pain bears on him from all sides, not easing for a second and he can't move – can't run from it – and every time he makes his muscles act, they hurt all the more and the steel bites into the soft flesh of his wrist, rubbed raw and open and he can only keep his head up, breathing, willing for his body to give up – to die – to let him have some fucking peace—

Refuse to give in to the hypnotics and refusing to give out the names of planets and quadrants, answering only with a scream as they prod and pick at him, subjecting him to electrical surges and rapid-fire cutting and the constant hum of a low-powered blaster burned into his skin until he can smell it through his guttural shrieking.

Even if the stench of his own blood and piss and shit, caked up his ass and down his legs, suffuse around him, he refuses to say anything.

He hears the door slide open, but he can't lift his head, can only mewl pitifully at the unending ache all around him, taking him a while to understand the words being spoken.

"I have to admit, I am impressed by its ability to resist our hypnotics. Seems the Garrison Initiative trained it well." A cold voice announces, voice casual, as if they were not in the presence of a beaten and tortured man hanging from his wrists up. He can only peek one eye open – he's not sure if the other's still working or if the armored hand that had been used to punch him had pulverized it – and catch sight of the black uniform of the Imperial Security Bureau and he closes, already inching to move away, instinctually trying to cover himself from the pain he knows is coming.

Another voice rises, responding. "Trained _too_ well. It's been almost thirty-six hours since detention and it has yet to give us the coordinates of Takashi Shirogane's location. I promised the commander that I will have the coordinates by tomorrow, otherwise they will give it over to Imperial Intelligence."

Keith's groan is cut short as his head is thrown to the side, blinding pain blooming on his cheek as the ISB officer punches him. He tastes blood in his mouth, the hair stuck to his skin and over his eyes and he lets his head fall, listless, biting in the gasps. "Good, you made it shut up. It was starting to annoy me."

A growl. " _It_ has aggravated me enough. If Intelligence gets it, they'll hand it over to Adam and I refuse to let him take the opportunity of narrowing down Shirogane's location to that smug bastard. Intelligence has access to the clone-chip interface system, and they'll be able to see its recording."

Keith breathes through gritted teeth, shivering, and the rattle of the chains has him pausing – even stopping his own breath as he waits for another punch, bracing for the pain at every direction of his body. Nothing comes except a laugh.

"Well, if Adam does manage to get it from you, it'll take forever for him to shut up about it during liberty. What do you propose to do for us to get Shirogane's coordinates?"

"Something primitive, but highly effective." Was the ominous response – and Keith has no idea what's happening, or about to happen, but the sound of the footfalls change – barely noticeable above the ringing in his ears.

He's not prepared for the chains to be loosened, and the absence of any sort of strength has him falling to the ground, limbs askew as his head bangs against the steel, unable to quiet his cry.

A kick to his stomach has him barreling over on to his back, legs askew and his entire form curling up – trying to hide his front, instinct for survival taking over – but his arms are weak, he's not fed _anything_ and he can only shift his head side-to-side, crying out as his limbs refuse to move no matter how much he tries.

The overhead light blinds him, and he sees nothing but shadows and forms and none of the faces of the ISB officers above him, until something – a hand – grabs his jaw and forces it open—

Something tubular is shoved in, and he chokes on it, the rigid material gnashing against the skin of his throat and he automatically heaves, but the grip on his jaw is too powerful and strong – and he's too weak – for him to do anything but sob around it, his terror locked deep under.

Something wet – some liquid – starts pouring in, fast and relentless, and the surprise of it has him choking, getting into his lungs and his eyes prickle and his nerves complain at the abuse, sending pain up his body and he can't even tremble and stutter, can't even convulse to distract him from the rushing down his throat – and it's filling him, not allowing him to breathe and he's forced to swallow it or drown until his stomach complains at the quantity—

He doesn't even know how it tastes like, he doesn't have to think about it as it starts flooding in, and his entire body writhes, trying to stop the flow, and it spills out of his mouth and down his cheeks but it doesn't let up, doesn't stop from drowning him and he doesn't know if it's just in his stomach or if it's also in his lungs and his organs and in his veins – his entire body fucking _hurts_ –

The acute-sharp pain of his outside wounds mixes with the dulled, bludgeon ache of his stomach and face and the slow, gradual suffocation of the fluid pouring in has his vision blanking out, but unable to pass out as the liquid continues to make him choke—

The tube is pulled out harshly, and he sputters, trying to choke in air and spit out fluids but before he could do any of that, a boot is slammed into his stomach.

The pain is dulled out in the surprise – the agony spacing out as his eyes widen and his entire body heaves, the liquid sputtering out as the weight of the boot causes Keith to throw up, unable to stop it from escaping as his entire body curls in on itself at the slam.

His breathing stutters and his vision turns white before blacking out again as he falls back, head against the steel, his entire body shaking at the abuse and the pain of the boot against his stomach.

A hand grips his hair and pulls his face up, baring his neck and his lips tremble, whimpering, bleeding once more after the liquid has washed it off. He can feel it sticking against his neck and his face.

"ZX-eight-four-nine-zero-eleven, where is Takashi Shirogane?"

He doesn't even register the question in his head as he mewls, unable to think of anything but the pain and the echoing thought of _let me die let me die let me die let me die_ over and over, bouncing off the inside of his skull and expelled in wretched cries.

The hand slams his head against the ground and it pulls his jaw open, and he cries out as the tube is slammed back in once more, and he sees nothing but vague shapes moving in the light and the darkness blundering through and the liquid comes, starts filling his mouth and down his throat and the air stolen from his lungs—his throat screams at the raw pain, chafed and abraded, and his stomach aches at the liquid filling it out, his sides burning with the blunt spasms climbing up, limbs unmoving at his sides, no energy to move them—

The tube disappears and pain slams into his stomach, faster, not allowing him to breathe before he retches the liquid in bursts, unable to stop it from getting into his nose and over his face, can feel it bubbling against his lips, mixing with the saliva and he can only gasp – shrill, short and grating – as he curls and shivers, hair pulled up—

"ZX-eight-four-nine-zero-eleven, _where_ is Takashi Shirogane?"

He doesn't know where he finds the strength to shake his head, crying out – wondering if it sounds like a refusal – and he can only turn his head, side-to-side, and he doesn't know why, why he's refusing, why he's saying no—

He doesn't know where he is, why he's here, why this is being done to him—

He doesn't know what that name means, why does it force him to stomach the brutality and the pain and the maddening ache and shake his head, refusing to speak—

He doesn't even know what his name is—

His vision stutters as he feels the ground slam into the back of his head, the gloved hand prying his jaw open and he can feel the bruises and the indents on his skin, feel the broken teeth and the tube is forced in—

When the liquid starts rushing in, he can feel the tears run down his temple as he continues to shake his head, coughing and choking as the hand on his mouth refuses to let him go and he can only think of nothing and everything and one thought over and over as the boot slams into his stomach and it all spills out – fluids, blood, plasma and guts –

And he's writhing on the ground, covered in so many different fluids, his own piss and the shit still rubbed into his skin, filthy and disgusting, all the while he can only keep crying out, refusing to speak, refusing to think of anything but one line—

 _Let me die._

 _Let me die._

 _Let me die._

* * *

The right hand is still awkward, Shiro notes. There are times where it moves seamlessly — almost like it's been part of him for so long that it's all second-nature, the actions seemingly natural and lacking the awkwardness that the metal one has when Shiro is conscious of it — and when it does, when Shiro can reach out, unaware and unconscious, tapping Keith on the shoulder or putting a hand on his, and Keith only flicks his eyes down for a moment before looking up, a smile on his face, it's almost enough to forget that he had spent so long trying to acquaint himself with the loss.

"Hand hurting?" Pidge asks, eyes curious behind her glasses and Shiro shakes his head, smiling at her as he resumes washing the dishes. Pidge's holo-screen flickers for a bit as she moves away from wherever she was — probably in the gunship — and Shiro turns back to the window over the sink, watching the moon's reflection on the distant sea. It had been a quiet day, a stroll through the Theed market on errands, and Keith had been quieter than usual, but he smiled at Shiro often.

He doesn't allow himself to linger on the thoughts on how it had been in the past — the way Keith would laugh, dressed in the beige pastel robes native to Naboo, and Shiro would watch him, enamored with the way purple-mauve eyes glittered under the sunlight, the robes spinning about as he looks through the stalls, greeting the peddlers and Shiro would follow — and his eyes would fall on the pendant down the other's neck, heart too big for his chest and he can't stop himself from reaching out, twining their fingers together as they stand at the side of the road, watching the procession of the Queen — dressed in scarlet — and her handmaidens up the steps of the palace.

Keith's quieter now, settles on the old jacket he wore under the cloak and he still has even that, but the hood is lowered more often than not, and it's enough, Shiro thinks, as Keith follows him around — a smidge less talkative, but still Keith.

"Sorry, just had to get the schematics up." Pidge answers, returning to the screen just as Shiro finishes, placing the bowls into the storage bin — he pauses at the sight of the bottle on the bottom shelf, sees it down to a quarter — drying his left hand with the towel.

"Something for Matt?" He asks, pertaining to her brother. Pidge nods, muttering about adjusting thruster speeds on the gunship. Shiro ignores the commentary, used to Pidge's moments like these, as he settles on the table, eyeing the dark living room.

Keith had gotten up after dinner — "just wanna see the river at night, I'll be back" — and Shiro had smiled at him, even though the fear of him not appearing at the door still spiked at the mention of it. He knows it's not fair to Keith, to always be afraid of him leaving and not coming back, not now when Keith had made the promise to stay—

But it's not like he can forget the almost two-year absence when he had woken up in Thila, arm gone and Keith missing. For so long, he had let the bitterness and spite fester in him and when he finally realized the reason why, it couldn't do anything to the too-many shards splintering inside him, seeing the biting loneliness in the haunted purple eyes, the hooded gaze and the lips almost set in a frown.

"How's Lance and Hunk?" He asks, turning to the screen, confident in the belief that Keith will stick to his word.

Pidge hums, looking up, thinking. "I think Lance is still in Cato Neimoidia. Hunk was travelling back home to Galatena. Last I heard was he made a stop at Coruscant."

Shiro nods, relieved at the update. He still gets updates from his team, but ever since Perlemian, they've been slowly going about their own ways for now — laying low. The Rebellion hasn't contacted him after the Eriadu mission, partly because of how difficult it was to secure channels from out of the Empire's gaze.

"What about you?" Pidge asks, looking at him and Shiro shrugs.

"Doing well, considering."

A brow is raised, the screen flickering. "Considering how?"

Shiro exhales through his mouth, tapping the right hand's fingers against the tabletop. It was slow, not as fluid as the left, but it's definitely a lot faster than how he started. He taps the index, followed by the middle and until he gets a rhythm going, ignoring the occasional twinge in the nerves of where the flesh ended. "Considering how things ended. Eriadu had been...not a disaster, but it was certainly a memorable one."

"Memorable is an understatement, Shiro." Pidge comments, voice dry and Shiro raises the corner of his lips at her.

Finding the love of your life again after believing he had betrayed you for almost two years was certainly going to be memorable.

"It's...he's trying." Shiro admits, voice growing quiet as he looks up at the closed door of his house. It wasn't that late yet, he thinks. He'll be back. He turns to Pidge, distracting himself. "It's taking a bit of adjusting on my end, too."

Pidge doesn't ask, but her expression becomes curious, the faint blue holo of her stuttering. Shiro continues with the tapping of his fingers, not masking the slight concern in his voice.

"He's a lot quieter, now. A lot more reserved. It's not like—" he cuts himself off, annoyed at his own words. "I don't know everything yet, Pidge, and I don't want to force him to tell me when he doesn't want to."

"Has Keith ever talked to you about it?" Pidge asks and Shiro shakes his head.

"I want him to, but I don't want to ask that of him." No, Shiro wants Keith to talk to him because he chooses to. He's different now, definitely, but the difference is good — in a way. He talks more now, smiles more — and it's a _big_ difference to how Keith was when Shiro met him again in Eriadu, when he was more shadow than man, eyes hidden by the hood and his entire form almost invisible in the shadows.

And Shiro knows — he knows a thing or two about some demons you don't want to talk about yet, the fears and anxieties itching to prey on you when you're at your weakest and he knows the way it eats at you on the inside, gnawing and nibbling until whatever courage you have left is gone, and he remembers how it feels in the first few weeks he's gotten the metal arm, unable to look at it without wanting to slam it against the ground until it breaks — anything to make him feel something.

"But when he does want to talk about it, I want to be there for him. I want to be the one he talks to." Shiro admits, wondering if Pidge will think him selfish for it, but he can't help it — he wants to know.

He wants to know Keith again. He wants to know the stories behind the scars, the one by his jaw and the one by his cheek and the one around his neck, and what really happened to his right hand, and every one of them littering his front and back and — gods, Shiro knows the stories are going to kill him, the truth is going to kill him but he has to—

He wasn't there, when it all happened. He was off on his own, angry and spiteful and heartbroken while Keith had crawled and staggered through fire and blood, trying to find an oasis in the wreckage and even though he's here _now,_ and Keith's by his side, it feels like he's still missing not just a piece, but the entire board of the puzzle—

And if it helps Keith, to have someone else know those stories, for there to be a confidante when the only other person who knew the history of each burn and healed wound had sacrificed himself to save Keith — save them — then Shiro wants to be that person. He wants to be that person _again_ — for Keith.

Now that he knows the truth, now that he knows the reason for the laser fire on his engines and the reverb of Keith's voice played over and over— _for the Empire, for the Emperor—_ now that he knows the precipice and the choice that Keith had to make, the one nobody might have been strong enough to do so, then he wants to be there now.

"Do you really think he'll ever open up about it, Shiro?" Pidge asks, voice growing soft. Her eyes are back on whatever she was doing, but Shiro catches the question and the uncertainty in them. It took a while, but she doesn't seem furious whenever Keith is brought up can do that, sometimes.

He ponders on her question — and the sick fear growing in his chest at the thought of Keith never opening about it has him gripping the table end tightly, his right hand stilling in their rhythm. He doesn't—

He doesn't like the haunted look on Keith. He doesn't like the way it turns his eyes shuttered, and how it seemed like there was this troubling ghost glued to his skin, and the way his shoulders hunched in and how he seemed to look smaller and thinner, almost invisible in the right amount of darkness.

But a part of that will always be in Keith, now. It was impossible to go back to how things were, from before, but if possible — if he still could — he wants to be there to pull Keith back from falling off the edge of the cliff.

He just doesn't know how — not when Keith wasn't ready to tell him yet.

"I hope so," Shiro answers, settling on the response burning in his chest. "I just hope that I'm the right person to be there for him."

Pidge's voice is slightly disbelieving when she hears Shiro's response. "What makes you think you're not? He did all that to protect you, Shiro."

Shiro closes his eyes, the beating in his chest still growing tight when Keith had admitted — in the gunship hangar when Shiro had been ready to push the defector off the _Kerberos_ — that there had been a clone-chip in the stormtroopers that tracked their movements, and all it took was a moment to realize what it meant, when the Star Destroyer had arrived out of nowhere in the Perlemian route.

"I know," the words are spoken in barely even tones as Shiro tries to get them out of the stone in his chest. "I just—I don't want him to hurt even more. Not for me."

Pidge is quiet, understanding, when she speaks after the seconds of silence had gone long enough. "It was his choice, Shiro. What he did was reckless, and stupid but it was brave. Braver than anyone I know has ever done, and he did that for you. You're the person he needs, Shiro."

He doesn't even realize his eyes are burning as pushes his left palm against his forehead, trying to control the tremble of his shoulders. The crack at the end of his sentence goes by, unnoticed. "I hope I'm enough, Pidge. Hurting him is the last thing I ever want to do."

"You are enough, Shiro." Pidge confirms, voice small but determined, unyielding. Shiro wipes his eyes, breathing through his mouth as he crosses his arms over the tabletop, trying to get his emotions and his bearings straight.

He doesn't voice his doubts and questions, not when Pidge looks at him fiercely — unwilling to change her answer and her belief in him — and it's only when he finally manages to wipe the last of the wetness from his eyes does he notice the other looking behind him.

He turns in his seat, finding Keith by the entrance of the kitchen, hesitant.

"Hey," he greets, clearing his throat after realizing how low and hoarse his voice had gotten. Keith looks from Pidge's holo to him, and the hesitation in the purple eyes are apparent. Keith's voice is quiet when he greets back.

Shiro ignores the slight tension — it was impossible to expect easiness between all of Voltron now that Keith was back, not after everything that has happened. They couldn't go back to the shared smiles and the bright laughter from before, but they could start fixing the distance, and Shiro can see Keith trying — watching the other greet Pidge, even when the awkwardness is still apparent.

"I need to go," Pidge announces, and they both turn to her as she waves her hands, a sheepish smile on her face. "Just have some things to do. I'll talk to you guys soon, okay?"

Shiro nods at her, and Pidge gives Keith a small smile — a bit hesitant on the edges, but still true — and he watches Keith bite his lip and nod, managing a quiet answer before the holo disappears. Back then, Keith would have made a joke — maybe a roll of the eyes, or a tongue out at Pidge and their spitfire engineer would threaten to embargo his starfighter or other — and Shiro would be at the side, used to the banter between them.

 _He's trying,_ he reminds himself. _He's trying so hard._

Shiro reaches out with his left hand, tangling their fingers together. Keith pauses, turning to him before looking down at their joined hands, emotion in his eyes. Shiro gives him a smile. "You okay?"

Keith doesn't answer immediately, settling on the nearest stool. He's not wearing his cloak, it's hanging by the door, and Shiro takes in the loose grey shirt he has on — one of Shiro's from before the Clone Wars, from before joining the Republic Army — and the neckline low to reveal his collar bones, and the healing scar on his neck.

"Yeah, just needed some fresh air." Keith answers, and Shiro notes the evasion but he doesn't call the other out for it. The worry and the fear of waiting for Keith to come back, only for him to disappear again, had dissipated almost immediately. Keith will tell him, someday, and, until then, Shiro can be patient.

"Did you get to the river okay? There's a small ravine nearby and it can be hard to see in the dark." Shiro asks, their fingers still locked as he squeezes gently.

Keith nods, turning to look at Shiro, his gaze undecipherable.

It grows silent between them, but Shiro doesn't mind. Keith isn't looking away, and the ghosts lurking in his eyes aren't making an appearance, and their fingers are still locked and he's just so full of—love for him, for all that he is — was — and will be. Even after all the pain and the tragedies, when Shiro looks at him, and sees the line of the pendant over his collarbones and the fact that it's still there — after all this time — his heart aligns itself somewhere out of his body and his chest curls on itself, trying to frame the skin around the shape of Keith in it.

"I'm not going anywhere," Shiro says — and the words are unusual, not the ones he wanted to say — but he continues to say them, his voice light but determined, _sure._ He _needs_ the other to know that, to believe it, and maybe it shows on his face, because Keith blinks twice, eyes roving over his face, trying to find something he doesn't know, and the fingers in his hand squeezes back.

"I know." The answer is just as sure, just as confident, just as faithful and Shiro smiles at it, his spirit soaring as Keith's lips curl up slightly in response.

He doesn't know how long, and how far he's going to need to go for Keith to open up to him about everything that had happened when they've been separated, but he doesn't want the gaping maw of a distance between them — not anymore, not when Shiro has learned how it feels like for what it was and he had been miserable and broken, and he doesn't want that for either of them.

Not when he still loves Keith, and he knows — Keith still loves him.

It doesn't matter if it's a push in the right direction, or a pull four steps back. He's not going to stop trying — trying to be the right man for him, to be the right person for Keith to confide in, just trying to be right man for Keith to lay his burdens on, and the right person for Keith to fall into, whenever he needs to feel it all disappear and crash into the ground—

And Shiro will be there to catch him—as many times as it takes.

* * *

"Damn it!" Shiro roars, grabbing the training droid and throwing it against the wall. It beeps pitifully, before the sound of steel hitting still echoes in the quiet, and it falls to the ground – broken, surges of electricity flickering out. He hears nothing but his own angry breathing, the forced intake of air that he tries to even out but all he can focus and think is the pain running up his hand, the fingers moving _too_ fucking slow for him and just the weight on his chest that threatens to bring him to his knees.

He stalks to the nearby table and grabs the canister, cool water rushing down his throat before he slams it back – a dent forming on the top as he wipes the sweat off his face with his left arm. The right is against his side, and the cold and sharp edges of the metal hand feels like claws against tender insides, and each graze brings up more rage and bitterness from a well he never knew he had in him.

He doesn't know where the others are – somewhere in the gunship, maybe in the hold or in the bridge or in the hangar – and a part of him doesn't care, not when the _Kerberos_ was still in transit to Naboo and there were still almost two days left before he'd hit home.

Only one hand short and an entire person missing.

The thought of Keith – _gods –_ brings a sting to his eyes and he doesn't know what to seethe on, the ire in his chest as the recorded message plays over and over or just the ground pulled out from under him without warning. He doesn't know which one would make the hurt any less biting, any less stifling – and a part of him is terrified that neither could even do that.

"Fuck!" He roars again, kicking the table's leg with his boot and it tips over, crashing to the ground in a noisy clatter that rang in his ears, the canister falling with it. His own breathing – and it sounds more and more like a sob, like a deep-seated cry locked in the cavities of his chest and itching to tear out of his skin – rings over the din of it all. His hand – the real one, the only one he has left because he can't think of the other as _his_ – tightens into a fist, the veins bulging and his muscles aching but he doesn't care, he doesn't feel any of it as he walks up to the nearby training dummies, his boot echoing loudly against the steel, and he rears his hand back—

And punches the dummy in the head, over and over.

He's unaware of the sounds escaping his lips – each cry punctuated by the ugly sound of flesh hitting the metal of the dummy – and the dulled, bludgeoning pain spreading from his knuckles up to his entire hand only simmers beneath the furor and the cold in his chest, the repetitive motion of his arm pulling back, his fist tightening and punching the dummy over and over.

A voice calls out to him over the sobbing – and it sounds pained and angry mixed in a sniffled cry. "Shiro, stop it."

He ignores Lance's voice. All he sees is the blunted, damaged head of the dummy and he can't stop seeing the black and white plate of a stormtrooper over it and it _fuels_ his spite, the entire marionette shaking with each punch, and he feels sharp pain on his knuckles now – and feels something wet against the dummy head and his own skin—

"Shiro, please, you're going to hurt yourself."

The stormtrooper plate is caked in red now, and he can't stop – has to let out the bitterness climbing up his throat, down his veins and circulating around every fucking cell and organ in his body until he feels like he's a walking time bomb, an infection – and the ichor of it pours out of his skin and into his eyes and mouth until he's breathing and smelling and tasting scarlet and ash, soot and layers upon layers of the loss in his chest—

"Kriff, Shiro, _please._ "

It feels fucking painful – the gaping hole in his chest. He's fucking known pain. He's known the burn of blaster against his skin and he's felt the blunt ache against muscle and bone when hit by the butt of a vibroblade. He's known what it's like to lose his men – to see their mangled, dead bodies floating in space as Separatist ships scorch their fighters in crimson, and he's heard their cries of help seconds from radio silence echoing in his soul every time he fucking closes his eyes. He's known the helplessness and loss as his friend – one of the truest he knows – is shot down in front of him, watched the blue color of Republic blaster fire cut through Allura's surprised parrying, disbelief across her face at the betrayal, slipping past her lightsaber and hitting her in the chest – her scream cut short as the Clones continue to shoot at her until she was a fucking corpse full of holes, dead eyes full of fear and all he could show for it – all he could get from the questions and the screaming as he's held back, made to shut up or face the same thing, was an executive order from the Galactic _Emperor._

He's known loss and pain—

But it can't compare to the agony in his chest as he feels nothing from his right hand, and he hears no bright laughter from purple-mauve eyes and all he can think on, _breathe_ on is just how much the pain had made him stagger and crawl, bare-handed, on earth spiked in sharp, biting shards in a film of poison but he managed to get through, managed to trust one person enough with his heart – with his entire existence – because he had thought, he had _believed_ that it could be true, that there was hope even in the shittiest and kriffing darkest part of the galaxy, and that he managed to save Keith in spite of all the ooze that the Empire had forced him in, willing to take a bullet – an entire army – for him and for that one hope—

Only to turn around and find Keith behind the barrel of the gun, pulling the trigger.

"Shiro, fucking listen to _me!"_

Lance tries to pull him off but he doesn't relent, pushing the pilot away with a bloodied hand as he continues to beat the dummy, until the head starts to fly farther and farther back with each punch, the neck holding it up cracking and breaking, and it's all painted in red, and the hoarseness of his throat adds to the pain running up both arms, and the stormtrooper helm disappears, replaced by dark hair and purple-mauve eyes and lips whispering his name over and over but Shiro can't stop, can't _think_ until the mauve eyes are beaten shut, dark and bloodied, and the pale skin he was once adorned with his lips turn blue and violet with each bludgeon until the life disappears from the eyes and—

The thought crashes into him like a freighter, and Shiro falls to his knees, the dummy clattering beside him, as he throws up.

He doesn't really heave anything – just his own spit – but it feels like his entire stomach is regurgitating, shifting and aching in his belly. His skin is cold, colder than the steel under him and his nerves that had been white-hot with rage are now numb, and he doesn't feel Lance's hand on his back or the one on his face, pushing his hair up.

"Breathe, Shiro. Breathe, okay?" Lance's voice washes over him and Shiro holds on to it desperately, the bloodied dummy in the peripheries of his vision making him want to hurl but he holds it back, breathing through his mouth and his nose and his tongue out like a kriffing animal. "Yeah, good, in and out. I'm here, okay?"

Shiro nods his head, hearing the shaky reassurances – anything to ignore the abyss his heart falls into as he closes his eyes, the vomit replaced by the sobs escaping his lips, his left hand red on the black steel, and the abuse on it rushing back at him – as if it finally demanded to be acknowledged – and Lance says something about first aid but he doesn't hear it, _really_ hear it, as he tries to hold on to something – anything – that won't let him get pulled under the storm.

Lance returns, and he feels something soft pressed against his lips – a cloth – wiping the spittle away, and he breathes enough to clear his eyes with his left hand, ignoring the sting on the open wounds and the red painting his sweat-soaked skin.

"Hey, just let me, okay?" Shiro falls silent, letting Lance wipe the blood and sweat off his face and it shouldn't—he's the captain of the team, the leader and he shouldn't be on his knees, broken and weak while he's second-in-command takes control and start fixing his mistakes.

"I'm sorry." The words are immaterial in the scale of things, and when Shiro says it, it doesn't do anything to fill the maw in his chest. The cloth on his face stills for a moment before Lance resumes his ministrations, and his words are tight, tinged in anger, but also understanding.

"It's not your fault. It was never your fault." Lance growls, fiercely, and Shiro turns to him – sees the heat in his dark eyes and he sees the faint line of exhaustion and weariness in them – the pain of betrayal – and it sinks in that he's not the only one hurting.

He's not the only one who feels like someone had ripped his heart out.

"Did—did I do something wrong?" He asks, desperate for an answer that could remedy – if only for a moment, a fucking _second_ , the misery. "Was I not enough?"

When Keith had looked up at him, sleepy, a gentle smile on his face as the light from the nearby star creased through the shut blinds of the gunship, painting his skin lines of gold, and Shiro had looked down on him, heart beating loudly and painfully – the good kind of pain, the beautiful kind of pain – as Keith blinked, still half-asleep and whispered. _I love you._

When had that changed?

When had all of that changed?

"Don't do this, Shiro." Lance asks – and his voice goes from angry to pleading, shaking his head as Shiro's vision blurs once more. "Don't let this break you."

The thing is—Shiro knows Lance, knows that the other was never reserved with his thoughts and with his words. It was the one thing that made him and Keith clash over and over – with vitriol at the start, with caustic affection near the end – and Shiro knows the rage in the other's eyes are barely reigning back the things he really wants to say, but he doesn't.

He focuses on Shiro and what not to think – and Shiro can't help but close his eyes and lean against Lance's shoulder, biting his lip hard enough to bleed and just breathe – breathe against his friend's warmth, not knowing what to do to make it better, not knowing where to start to begin fixing things and not knowing how he's even going to go about stitching back the lacerations and the cuts that were too deep, too wide for him to even think of in their entirety—

"I should have been better." He says, more air than actual words and he breathes in a sob. "Maybe he wouldn't have done what he did if I had been better."

He doesn't know what better is – what context it even means and he has no idea what part of him, what action he had done, what word he had said – whatever was responsible, the root and the heart at the core of all this was, and if he had – if he knew, maybe he could have held on to Keith tighter, held on to him even if his fingers burn for it, if it meant the he didn't feel like he was half a person, half an entire galaxy, then it could be worth it, it was _worth_ it and he wouldn't—

They wouldn't have to feel like they've been ripped apart without mercy, without a shred of charity.

"Don't, Shiro." Lance's voice edges on to breaking. "He made his choice. He did that. You're not responsible for anything. Don't even think about that, Shiro."

Shiro doesn't answer. He doesn't know what to answer or even respond to Lance – not when all he can remember and think, when all the images in his head playing on the insides of his skull like a holo-projector, was the image of Keith's smile burning out in crimson laser fire.

* * *

The draft that runs through the field is cool – and it's a welcome respite against the heat, even when he's under the shade. Shiro squints through the brightness, and he hears Keith arranging the produce and the items they bought from the market, storing them away.

He shakes his head, turning back to his hand on the table and he tries again – tries to flex them, pull them in against the palm – slowly. Some days, he can move them quickly – when the nerves that had been lined, fixed and connected to the cybernetic endings worked seamlessly with each other – and it would be so easy to roll a coin over them, wiggle them against his leg or run through Keith's hair, none of the strands catching on the smooth metal.

Some days, even moving a finger took everything in him – his muscles straining, sweat trickling down his temple and his teeth gritted in a bare snarl as he grunts, forcing them to move, and it takes everything and anything – all of this – to move one digit, and the price – the exchange feels like a rip-off, an unfair bargain.

Keith doesn't say anything when he sees Shiro struggling with the dexterity of the right hand. He notices – that's obvious – and his eyes narrow down on the movements of the artificial digits when Shiro reaches out to grab an apple, or press the switch on the caf machine. His eyes go dark with emotion – and, sometimes, they run too fast for Shiro to catch and examine.

But Keith isn't always too good at evasion, and Shiro notes the lingering pain, the deep-seated self-blame that grows, blooms like a poisonous flower in the purple-mauve, casting shadows under his eyes and dimming the brightness of his gaze – turning them liquid. If he thinks of the line of action – on what happened that made Shiro lose his hand, it'd be so easy to say it was Keith's fault – that it was really _his_ mistake and not Shiro's. He didn't put his hand out to be crushed against the gunship, and he didn't fire on his own engines and making him crash.

Keith had. Keith made that choice, even when he had no idea of the repercussions.

But—

Shiro doesn't blame him.

He did – before. In the anger and the spite that grew dank and bitter in the months following Perlemian, he had blamed Keith. When the image of dark hair and purple-mauve eyes popped into his head, unwanted, all he could think of was the rage and the hurt and the never ending question of _why._

Now—

When he finally knows what had happened, what really caused Keith to do what he did—

He breathes deep, and he ducks his head, allowing the wind to shift through his hair and over his skin, the coolness slowly wiping away the heat that had gathered in his exertion to move his hand.

He doesn't blame Keith now.

Not after knowing what had happened.

 _If it means I get to save you, I'd do it all over again._

"Hey." He turns, finding Keith by the door to the balcony, leaning against the jamb and smiling at him. Shiro leans back against the chair, greeting back, taking in the curled lips.

Keith smiles easier, nowadays. Shiro finds himself breathing easier, too.

Still—

There's a line of tension growing, somewhere, and simmering beneath the surface, about to snap. He knows it's only a matter of time before something like that happens – and it's just, Shiro has always been on the more active side of things and he knows Keith is too, reckless and wild, just as quick to gamble with the stakes as Shiro, and all this quiet and peace would be too much, one day.

Especially for people like them who've seen too many things to be ever at complete peace with the galaxy.

"How's your hand?" Keith asks, purple-mauve eyes flitting to the silver metal glinting in the light. Shiro turns to it slightly, giving him a sheepish smile.

"Taking a while today." He tries not to worry at the flash of regret in the other's eyes, disappearing just as quickly as it appeared, turning back to Shiro with a slightly strained expression. "But it's been a good week so far, so I'm not really concerned."

Keith nods slowly, taking his words in, and Shiro watches as he crosses the distance and pulls the chair next to his, hesitating only a moment before sitting. This close, with his thigh almost pressed against the other, he can smell the scent of his own soap on Keith's skin and—

It just brings so many memories, all of them happy and bright, lined in the dark steel walls of the gunship or past a rush of stars as they cruise past Lance and Hunk. Memories of Keith pressed against his front, their skin bare and the hot rush of the cabin's shower washing off the foam of the soap, their lips locked together, and hands grabbing what they could. Memories of Keith pulling him close, a soft grin on his lips as Shiro allows himself to be held, Keith's hand over his, fingers locked, twin gold bands clinking silently under the gentle ever-glow of starlight.

Keith's lips purse as he looks at Shiro's hand, his own bunching over his pants and Shiro's gaze is pulled to them—

The cuts and the scars, running down the lower lip and one near the edge – they're whiter against his skin, long-healed but always marked, always branded. He watches as they bunch and widen out when Keith smiles, or grow distinct as the light shifts and he can't help recall the way the feel – the way they taste, the first time he kissed Keith—

In the hangar of the _Kerberos_ , his eyes shining and gleaming, Shiro's own hands rising to cup his cheeks, and the gentle press of them against his own – the way Keith had _melted_ into him and Shiro could only hold him up, the way it felt like fire and lightning arcing down his nerves, setting them alight and blazing—

He can still remember, with clarity, the last time they kissed – before everything that had torn them apart.

Gods, he wants to kiss Keith.

He wants to taste those lips again, and make him sigh and whimper, make him close his eyes in pleasure and arch into Shiro – pliant and willing, reactive to every graze, every slide of his hand over the pale skin – and he can't help but think of all the times he's made love to Keith, all the times he's pulled away the clothes and the barriers between them, and Keith was there – all of him – bare and open and for Shiro to lathe and worship, every inch of skin and every plane of muscle, his own heart banging against his ribs at the tear-lined pleasure in the purple-mauve eyes.

He hasn't – talked about it, and hasn't made a move towards it. They've held each other, and Keith presses himself close to Shiro when they sleep, but they haven't kissed, and their touches were more comforting and consoling than excited and arousing—and part of it is Keith, and the swings of his moods, and part of it is Shiro, and how Keith would react when the metal touches his scarred skin.

Keith hasn't made a move yet, and Shiro half-fears he never will – but he reminds himself, affirms the hope in his heart with what Keith had said aboard the gunship, in the aftermath of Thace's sacrifice. _I love you._

He knows it – and he believes it. It was just a matter of time.

"I'm sorry." The apology cuts in through his thoughts and he looks up to find Keith's eyes on the metal hand. Shiro shakes his head, but he stills when Keith reaches out – slowly, hesitatingly, and his hands are bare, the scars still distinct on his fingers and his wrist – and his breath stops when Keith's fingers smooth over the metal digits, gently touching them—

Reverently, tenderly, like they're still flesh, like they're still human and not a reminder of what almost destroyed him.

Keith's eyes are gleaming, his fingers superimposed on Shiro's, and a part of him aches at not being able to feel it, feel the warmth of them – the life pulsing under the skin –

Keith slowly helps him close his fingers, and Shiro grunts with the effort – trembling – and Keith's hold allows him to find the ledge, fastening to the grasp, allowing him to press the end of the index against his palm, the metal clinking.

One finger down – and his entire back is sweating, the shirt stuck to the skin, and his left hand is bunched into a fist so tight, it trembles against his leg and Keith's eyes are glimmering in the sunlight and it's unfair – unfair how it takes everything and anything to do something so simple, but he looks at the emotion in the other's eyes, and the image of the finger closed and the air in his lungs slither past the rocks and the shards and escape, letting him breathe.

"Thank you." He whispers back, the best he could do at the strain in his muscles. Keith ducks his head, but the hair doesn't fall into his eyes – pulled back to rest over his shoulder in a tie – and Shiro memorizes the line of his nape and the seam of his shoulder – the interposed images of pale skin and one blemished with scars – and he nods his head.

"I forgive you."

It's for everything and anything—

The laser fire on his engines and the sickening crunch of his fighter's wing as it crashes against the gunship. The weeks and the months spent screaming and crying – lobbed against dark steel wall as he pounds the metal with a bleeding hand, and the vomit and bile escapes his throat like bugs itching for release. The long days spent waiting, knee-high in seawater, staring at a Corellian sunset and a ghost in his arms, his eyes glaring – unblinking – even as the sun sears its image into his retina. The coldness and the wires and the contraptions that ran up his right arm, the shattered pieces and the intricate designs and the singular absence of what's no longer there. The shards splintering and cracking around his heart, the too-big ,too-sharp and too-painful blisters and wounds bleeding crimson and ichor as he takes in the dark-haired specter slithering in through the cantina, haunted purple-mauve eyes he hadn't seen in _so_ long rising to meet his.

Keith raises his head and surprise and fear echo on the seams and planes of his skin, the hollow under his eyes and the partition between his lips, but there's faith there—and hope. The hope is what Shiro is fighting for – and it's what he'll always fight for, no matter how painful it meant crawling through the broken shards.

Keith doesn't look away, and Shiro—

Hopes.

* * *

There's nothing but blaster fire and bombs in his ears. They explode, and rush past his shoulders and the impact – the dulled explosions – echo in him, against his bones that he almost trips, almost falls to his knees over the rubble under his feet but he can't – Keith can't trip and fall, not now.

The Rodian boy in his arms is shaking – and each time the sharp bite of the sound of blaster fire rushes past too close to home, he can feel the small hands gripping his shirt tightly, and he can hear the alien whimpering against his chest.

Overhead, guerilla Y-wings fly past, firing on Imperial soldiers on the ground and Keith curses, tasting blood on his lips as he ducks down, feels the draft of the starfighters rushing past against his hair and his back, dust thrown in his face in the aftermath. The boy cries louder, pressing tighter against his chest as something explodes meters away from them, stone flying into the air.

"Damn it," he growls, squinting through the fog and the haze, trying to find a hint of purple skin or any outline, any shadow of Thace's form in the crossfire. He feels wet warmth on his chest, and he doesn't look down to see the boy crying. His voice is rough, hoarse and it doesn't sound as comforting as the words they make. "Hey, we're going to make it, okay? I'm gonna get you to your mother, I promise."

The Rodian doesn't answer him, and Keith can feel the shivers through all the layers of clothing, but he ignores it as he raises his head, wrapping his arms tighter around the alien boy as green laser fire runs through the horizon, aiming for the streaking fighters.

It was hell – there was no other way to describe it, no other way to put into the words the carnage all around them – all of it, the fallen towers and the rubble, the artillery going off yards away, exploding on contact, bringing more buildings down. Keith grits his teeth and tastes dust and his own sweat as he cuts to the right, quickly, evading the sight of the running stormtroopers, shushing the boy as he presses himself against the shadows cast by the rubble.

When the troopers run past them – his lips pressed tight so hard, the Rodian's face against his chest tight, trying to muffle the cries and the helped by the noise of the rapid-fire starfighters in the air – he gasps desperately for air and powers through, his knees staggering under the weight and his limbs starting to burn in exhaustion.

He doesn't think of the collapsing buildings around him, or the impact sounds of blaster fire hitting steel or the sound the dust and rubble make when they're thrown into the air by the backdraft of a starfighter hitting the ground, his ears blown out by the explosion and the shrapnel cutting through his jacket and back as he turns to shield the boy.

He doesn't think of how his legs ache to cease carrying his weight, wants him to fall to the ground and curl into a ball and wait out the destruction, or the tired tingles up his arms, straining muscles keeping the Rodian pressed against him, still alight and atop him, still breathing.

If he can make it past the battlefield's zone, if he can make it somewhere he can think and regroup – maybe in the direction of the _Krolia_ – then he can come up with a plan, a way to get himself and Thace out of this and the refugees in the middle of the battle. Fuck the guerillas, he'd care less if they'd burn with the stormtroopers – not when he sees the bodies littered around the rubble and in the fire, not all of them by Imperial guns.

More Y-wings fly over them, a deafening rattle of blaster fire following the seconds after and the Rodian cries out again, and Keith has stopped caring at the dust and the blood caked around him and on his face and down his arms – he has to make sure he can get the boy home, get the boy to his mother, and he doesn't know where or who or if the kid even _has_ a mother, but he has to—has to keep him safe—

He hears the ring of blaster fire, but it's different – closer, visceral – and it sounds less like it's from the outside than it is echoing in his head, on the inside of his brain and his legs slow down as the echo grows louder and louder and louder until he can't even hear his own breathing, his own heartbeat and blood against his temple—

Something zoom pasts him – he can feel it – and the earth shakes and he falls to his knees, unprepared, the Rodian boy crying out but he doesn't notice as his ears keep on ringing—

Ringing with the gods-damned blaster fire and dust gets into his eyes, pain blooming under his knees as he tries to grab for hold on something—

He coughs and raises a hand to rub at his eyes, clearing them out, opening them—

Only to find himself in a cockpit, hands on the grips, and the inky blackness of space before him. Keith stutters, his heart in his throat and his breath cut short as the walls of the cockpit suddenly bear down on him, and the vision changes – his horizon shifts as TIE fighters fly past, ignoring him—

And his hyperspace radar is blaring red, loud and deafening in his ears, and the horizon shifts again, and gods, oh gods—

He can recognize the black and purple starfighter anywhere, can recognize the color of the plume as it streaks through the battlefield, singlehandedly evading a fleet of TIE fighters, keeping them off the flank of the gunship—

His hands move to aim his blasters at Shiro's starfighter, and his mouth opens to scream as he tries to stop – tries to still his hands, tries to pull them away from his grip – but his fingers squeeze the trigger—

And crimson laser fire flashes overhead and the headhunter's engines explode, sickening and echoing inside him, the ship crashing into the side of the side of the _Kerberos_ , the unforgettable crunch of metal playing in his hears over and over—

Blaster fire flies past the ship and suddenly explodes at nothing and he's thrown to the ground, coughing as something makes its way inside his nose and his eyes and they burn, spittle dripping down his lips, the tang reminiscent of blood as he hacks and coughs and opens his burning eyes—

There's no cockpit before him, no expanse of space and the approaching Star Destroyer, no echo of the high-pitched squeal of the hyperspace radar or the repetitive, maddening din of his own fighter's blasters unleashing red on Shiro's engines and there's no telltale crash – settling ugly in his stomach – of the headhunter crashing into the gunship's side.

He blinks through the tears and the pain and the absence of weight in his arms – frozen in place as he tries to understand, tries to ascertain where he is, what's happening around—

Blaster fire comes again – raw and relentless and _real_ – and it hits a fallen speeder nearby and the echo of it has Keith jumping, eyes frantically roving around, the weightlessness of his arms sending down ice and ichor down his veins and he looks up—

Six feet away, scarlet red splattered under in terrible, spine-chilling strokes, the Rodian boy glares at him with dead eyes.

* * *

Keith doesn't wake up screaming.

He never does.

What happens when his eyes open and the memory of whatever bullshit demon decided to find itself a home in his head start to flag and fade, lingering in the lids and the wetness under his eyes, is total silence – and just the breath locked in his chest.

He doesn't cry out – not when he's awake, and his eyes are wide and burning as they look at the plain ceiling of Shiro's bedroom. All he does is breathe through his nose, the warm air fluttering out over the skin above his lips and into the open air – the rustle of the grass blades distant in his ears. There's warmth on his side, and he doesn't turn but he can imagine Shiro splayed, cheek pressed against the pillow, turned to Keith, hair in his eyes.

Keith doesn't turn to him. He doesn't turn at all. He doesn't even move.

If he does, he might not be able to stop himself from breaking – from keeping the sob in his throat, fastened and chained under heavy lock and key as the nightmare flashes, thunders, through every space in his head, in his thoughts, erasing everything but the scarlet red pooling over his hands – endless, flooding and irredeemable.

He doesn't feel real – he doesn't feel the body he's in, the warmth of the blood in his veins or just the entire thing and it's funny because he also feels too real, feels like everything around him is sharp-point needles piercing his skin, everywhere and every one of them is searing, cutting deep down to his bones—

Keith finds himself standing, moving out of the bed and from under the blankets, and he stands – trembling all over – eyeing the shadows in the corners, under the bed, and he sees the expanse of Shiro's bare back as he turns over, face scrunched up in sleep at Keith's absence, and it would have been enough—

Enough to keep the monsters at bay, enough to push their ugly, hateful, screaming faces from covering every part of his vision, bearing down on him until he's sobbing into his own chest, and it would have been enough to keep him steady, keep his head above the rush of vermillion water but—

His eyes fall on the metal arm, and he sees the scarring where the metal meets the flesh and it's not clean – the scar wasn't even and made cleanly because Lance had told him, straight to his face when he asked, without covering or hesitation or the thought of shielding Keith from the ugly truth, how the arm had been _ripped open,_ bone and sinew, in the crash against the gunship –

The Rodian boy glares at him with dead eyes. The Sullustan looks at him with terror as he points a gun at him. A child's head explodes when he pulls the trigger.

Shiro's engines explode in a flash of red.

He has to—

He can't stay.

He was – _is –_ an infection, a disease. It doesn't matter how many times he tries to make it up to the galaxy, doesn't matter how many times he sheds his own blood and skin in a desperate effort to right all the wrongs he's done – when all the wrongs are piling up on one end of the scale and the weight of it all is colossal, magnanimous and it doesn't matter how many times he dies, over and over and over, he'll never be able to fix it, fix anything and—

If he stays here, he's just going to hurt Shiro.

He's been okay – he's been more than okay, doing better than he had been on most days. The itch of his hands to reach for the alcohol seized and lashed against his own veins, but he managed to reign them back in. The urge to bang and bash his head against the nearest wall when every sliver of color has him imaging red and purple, disappearing over the horizon, he's managed to stop himself and focus on what was good—

What had kept him crawling through the pit and the abyss, unable to even look up at where the escape is because he's long fastened his own eyes on the earth below—

And Shiro's been happy – so happy around him, and Keith has been _fucking_ happy, a disbelieving kind of happy that borders on insanity, on the idea that all of this wasn't real, that there was no way this could be real, not for someone like him – for someone with too much red and too much blood on his hands, so deep and thick it's practically one and the same as his own skin.

But—

The metal hand shines in the near darkness and Keith can only curl his hands in, press them against his stomach as the pit and the weight in it threatens to burst through his skin, hair in his face like needles grazing down his chin and he can't—

He'll hurt Shiro. One day, he'll hurt Shiro and he can't—

He can't go through that again, not after everything he's done to the man he loved. He can't be around the other, not when the ugliness and the disease lingered around him like a specter, and everything he touches withers and dies and Shiro can't be that – he can't disappear, not when he's been the only one that Keith could hold on to, even if it's just a memory – even if it's just a fantasy in his goddamn head—

He doesn't think, walking fast on bare feet as he leaves the bedroom, unable to get air into his lungs and he's scrambling through the halls and up to the front door where his cloak is hanging by the door and he reaches out for it – desperate for the shadow it casts him in, the darkness it cloaks about him, and he doesn't have to think of anything but the black grasp around his eyes and chest—

The cloak in his grasp is coarse, rough and familiar and his heart aches for the lonely protection it offers, chaining him to a life on his own and nobody to turn to—

He doesn't pull it on.

The sob makes it out of his lips, and it cracks and breaks once it hits the air, but the hand on the cloak falls and he's standing there – barefoot and cold – head ducked as he cries, the tears run down his cheeks in hot lines, and the sounds out of his lips are stifled and gasped-in but he doesn't move, he doesn't take a single step forward. He faces the door but doesn't leave, and his heart and head know why – his entire soul knows why.

He doesn't want to be alone anymore.

The thought leaves him gasping, a hand on his chest – clawing at the skin, desperate for air, desperate for some semblance of absolution to rid himself of the ache – and he trembles all over, his hand stutters against his thigh and his jaw quivers with an intensity that nobody could miss and it's wretched, ugly and pathetic—

But he doesn't move and he doesn't go.

He wants to stay.

He wants to wake up and feel the sunlight on his face and turn to find Shiro against him, arms locked around his waist, nose pressed against his shoulder. He wants to walk into the familiar kitchen and see the expanse of Shiro's bare back standing over the caf machine, sleepy taupe eyes shining as he smiles at Keith lingering in the door way. He wants to feel Shiro's lips on his skin again – even if the thought of it seems to grow more and more impossible as each day passes by, as each second Shiro spends looking over the grotesque wounds and the festering marks that make him more and more unsightly – feel the press and touch of someone who loved, love _s,_ him and feel like he's still human, still worthy of something like that.

He's so sick of being alone.

All he wants is to never be cold again.

The cool air lashes at the wet warmth of his skin and he wipes them away, heaving as he turns—

And sees Shiro behind him.

"Keith…"

Keith stills, lips parted, shivering slightly. Shiro is still in his sleep pants, his chest bare, the metal arm in full display. Lines of sleep are pressed into his cheek and his hair is messy – unrulier than usual – but his taupe eyes are wide and scared, gleaming in the sparse light. His shoulders are tense, and he looks like he's holding his breath, fragile – tremulous – and he looks close to falling to his knees, his left hand twitching against his thigh.

Keith's lips move to find the words, but they make no sound, unable to think as he looks at Shiro and sees the defeat ready to broil over his eyes, the hope barely noticeable under the agony and the terror and his body takes him – moves on their volition and without conscious effort – a step forward, reaching out—

"Keith…" Shiro says again, and his voice is broken, _scared_ beyond measure and his own arms part, open to him. "I thought…I thought you were going—"

Keith shakes his head, the peripheries of his vision blurring, the abyss in his chest slowly losing ground as he swallows and clears his throat. "I'm—I'm not going anywhere."

And before he can think himself out of from doing this, before he can find another reason not to do this – to not surrender himself to desire, to not wanting to feel Shiro against him – he cuts the distance short and presses himself against Shiro, his face against the wide chest, arms over the shoulders, meeting together on the other's nape and holding _tight—_

Shiro's arms close on him the second he enters their grasp, and it should feel bad and painful – the tight, almost choking hold Shiro has him in, the ragged breathing running up his chest and out his throat, the wet sound of relief that sputters against his hair as Shiro presses his lips against the crown of his head, the way the other's body – far larger than Keith's – seems to lose almost all strength and he's only held up by Keith's arms – it shouldn't feel this good and this powerful and this validating, like he's meant to be here – always meant to be here, no matter what happens, no matter what fucked-up, diseased corpse the galaxy throws his way—

Shiro cries into his hair, the fear slowly exorcised with every ragged breath against his hair and Keith can only hold on, hold him close, and repeat the words – _I'm not going anywhere –_ and even if his own voice stutters and breaks, loses power in the syllables and goes float at the end, he doesn't stop, not until Shiro raises his head and Keith looks up to him, a scarred hand moving up to his cheek, wiping away the wetness under the honest, vulnerable taupe eyes with a thumb—

"I love you." He says – and he's said it so many times, in so many ways, before the blaster fire and after the corvette crashing into the Star Destroyer, and he'll say it again – every fucking second of his life, for as long as Shiro needs to hear it.

For as long as Keith needs to say it.

Forever.

He pulls Shiro down, and breathes in the quiet, tightly mumbled _I love you, too_ in almost-silent baritone notes and presses his scarred lips against Shiro's.

Shiro kisses him back – desperate, deep and devastating – and Keith parts his lips, angles his head, every movement of his hands and his tongue relearning a familiar dance, a dance that had once made up the entirety of who he was.

The cloak is left on the ground.

Unnoticed.

Unwanted.

Unneeded.

* * *

It doesn't understand what is happening – the belts around its arms, strapped to the table, or the orange uniform of the Imperial Intelligence officer walking about the room. It watches the play of light on the flaxen hair and the glasses, the cold hazel eyes observing it.

It doesn't make a noise, not wanting to feel the pain of the boot on its stomach, or the beating of the electro-rods against its face. It doesn't want to hurt – hurting made it cry, made it scream and vomit and bleed. It doesn't understand why it screams, why it breathes and why blood runs out of its arms. It doesn't understand why it's here – why it's hurting.

"Amazing," the officer says, and it doesn't respond, breathing quietly. "Even after the crude and unsophisticated methods by the ISB, you're still coherent."

It doesn't make a sound, and it doesn't know what the officer is talking about. A hand finds its jaw, turning its head from side to side, hazel eyes running down and taking the features in. It doesn't look back into the eyes – they're unkind, there's no warmth and it's scared. It's always scared – has been, for so long.

"Such a shame." The officer continues, voice casual, not bothered by the splotches of red on its skin. "Very resilient. It's a waste to liquidate you, but orders _are_ orders."

There's no sorrow in the words, and it flinches at the apathy, trembling as it's unable to move any of its limbs.

The officer moves away and walks toward the panel by the door and it watches the man pull a keycard, setting it against the screen. Something moves – a smooth sliding sound – and it turns to the other side of the room where a partition of the wall ejects and glides upward, a compartment of tools rising.

The officer approaches the compartment and its eyes follow the movement, watching as the man runs his hands over the sharp tools – one in particular. The officer turns to him. "It's good that the clone-chip is in the wrist, I'd hate to get all that blood on me."

Its eyes widen, its heart beating loudly as terror climbs up his veins. The officer moves, doesn't blink at the shiver running up its body, walking towards it but its attention is caught by what's in the compartment and not what's in the officer's hand.

There's a pendant there – locked together with the tools, and it stills.

It's familiar, it thinks. Thoughts rush through its mind, brought on by the silver chain and the small circular object and it thinks of gold sunsets – blinding in their intensity – and a gentle smile.

It doesn't know what to make of it – what the thoughts mean, why does the strange foreign smile make it ache, somewhere deep inside, like there's a hole where its heart is supposed to be—

It's not supposed to ache or to want. It wasn't a person, it didn't have feelings and it didn't have needs. It was a thing for the officers to beat and hurt, for them to kick and prod and cut. It wasn't made for the things that the smile meant – or the feelings it was ignoring in his chest at the twinge of taupe eyes. It didn't – wasn't supposed to have memories. It was nothing.

The officer eases the harness around its limb, exposing the wrist, and the machine in his hand whirrs, spinning rapidly and it looks sharp, like it could bite through skin. It realizes that the tool is a vibrocutter.

It remembers the clone-chip in its limb and it breathes deep, looking back at the pendant.

Something crashes into the fear of its thoughts, and it stills, even when the vibrocutter is near. Its mind is flooded in white fluorescent, and there's a voice echoing – it's kind and warm, patient. It doesn't sound like something that will hurt.

It recalls a question, and it recalls the way it was difficult for it to find an answer – the _right_ answer. It had an answer, it had a response but the voice wouldn't accept, would not think of it as the correct one even if it tried to repeat it.

 _What's your name, soldier?_

It didn't have a name. It was a machine, a weapon. It was a thing that was meant to hurt, or to be hurt. It was good for only beatings and the tube spilling liquid down its throat, and it was only good for the officers to kick and slam their boots into its stomach.

It didn't want to hurt but it was always meant to hurt.

 _What's your name, soldier?_

The memories running through its head were wrong. They were not real. They were programmed. It was the only explanation, the only cause of belief because it was not something that made dreams, not something that had hopes and wishes. It wasn't created for the image of a gentle smile and the feeling of tender hands on a face and the whispered words of 'I love you'. It didn't know what love was – it wasn't made for love. Love was for humans. It wasn't human.

The officer presses a button and the whir of the cutter turns even faster, and he starts to lower it on to the open skin. The voice in its head, the one occupying its mind whispered 'forever'.

It wasn't meant for forever. It wasn't something for the emotions and the feelings the man in its head was displaying. It wasn't something made for the kindness and the hope that the man in its thought offered. It wasn't something deserving of the camaraderie of three different others – their faces greyed out but the grins apparent – as they circle about it, welcoming it into their little family.

 _What's your name, soldier?_

It wasn't something—

It wasn't—

It wasn't something—

It was some _one—_

No, not an _it_ —

He.

 _Keith._

The thought lances through him, and when the officer leans down, with all the strength he still has – the anger and the rage and the bitterness, the spite and suffering that had accumulated in his muscles and his bones and the searing crevice that had held his heart, Keith tensed his hand and slammed the hell of it up the officer's jaw – hears the crack of something but he doesn't care, not when he grabs the hand with the cutter, wringing it from the officer as he falls unconscious.

The machine continues to whir, the blades spinning too fast for him to notice, but he doesn't care at all, and he presses it against the straps holding his other limb down and hears the snapping of the material under the pressure.

The pendant continues to burn in his vision and all he could think about was his own name, over and over.

Not a thing. Not a machine. A person.

 _That's a nice name. Thank you, Keith._

Shiro had saved him again.

* * *

"You saved me." Keith whispers against his lips, after the kiss, and Shiro can only raise his hands and place them gently on the other's cheeks, feeling every motion and every pulse and every fine movement. Shiro doesn't interrupt him – knows the immensity of the courage that Keith has to pull to say that, to admit that, to open up about that.

And he knows that Keith may never be completely open about the horrors he's had to face in the aftermath of his sacrifice, and he knows that Keith may never be able to completely move on through the madness and the blood and the trauma—

But Shiro can only feel pride – a pride so intense that it widens his veins and his chest that his heart doesn't hurt when it rattles around – at the magnitude and the distance and just how far Keith's come, since the day he had met him in Rishi and since the day Keith had been thrown back into his life when he slithered in like a ghost in a cantina in Eriadu.

Shiro knows – just as well as he knows his own heart and his own reflection – that whatever Keith can manage to talk to him about, be that the horrors he faced or just the memory of it, just the subtleties and the metaphors of it, it doesn't matter how much or how long Keith can talk about it, Shiro will be there for him. He'll listen and his heart will break and his hands will tremble but he won't go anywhere, he won't turn his back on Keith and he won't let the man he loves with an intensity so powerful that it leaves him reeling go through all of it alone.

The memory of a Star Destroyer existing hyperspace and firing its cannons at him, narrowly escaping death because his fighter started spinning out of control when Keith had shot him over in Perlemian – it thunders through his mind, but the pain he feels isn't for himself anymore. There's another heartbreak there, in the silence of the radio and the aftermath of the laser fire. A sacrifice that nobody had ever noticed, not until the remains and the damage had long festered.

Shiro kisses him deep, hoping that Keith can feel just how much he loves him. When he parts, and Keith's panting against his lips, the words are right.

"We saved each other."

* * *

"C'mon," he hears the other groan, voice needy. Keith hums, mouthing at his neck, tasting sweat on skin, and the scent of alcohol up his noise. The noise of the cantina is dulled as they're pushed to the back, away from the crowd, and further into the cover of darkness, where nobody can see hands lingering on hips and down his ass.

The man he's kissing, the Human, hisses as Keith bites – strong enough to leave a mark, but light enough for it not to be deep, and he laps at it – hears the shaky hiss turn into a wet chuckle, a hand making its way down his back and pulling him close, groin rubbing against the other's.

His head is buzzing, the ale thrumming alongside whatever music the Bith band was playing, and no errant thought runs through his mind. All he knows is the feel of someone under his skin, the sweat and the noise in his ears and the arousal in between his legs. He doesn't think of anything else.

Keith lifts his head, raises his lips to the other's jaw, feels him grin and feels the other hand run down between them, fingers cupping his throbbing dick in his pants and it was his turn to breathe sharply, squeezing his eyes shut as his hips stutter, pushing up against the hand.

He reaches a hand up to grab the jaw and angle the man's face against his, kissing him on the lips, pushing in deep and the groan the other releases is swallowed, frissons of pleasure and arousal running from lips down his body and to his groin.

The man pulls away a bit, hand stilling against Keith's dick and he opens his eyes, annoyed at the absence. Through the hazy light, he sees dark hair and dark brown eyes, a wide grin on the face.

"Hey, what's your name?" The other asks in Basic, and Keith ignores him, leaning close to kiss him again. The man chuckles a bit, allowing himself to be ravaged by Keith's lips before he pulls back, voice hoarse. "I'm Sven."

"I don't care," Keith bites back, pushing into him and stifling his protest by running his free hand down the man's jacket and slipping it under the pants and he feels the coarse hair over the groin, finding the man's erect dick and wrapping his fingers around it.

"Kriff," he breathes against Keith's lips, leaning down to mouth at his jaw. The music continues to play overhead, lost in the drumbeat of Keith's heart in his ears and the throb of the dick in his hand and his own painful arousal against the hand.

Nothing more is said between them – nothing more than the grunts and the hisses – and they're pushed deeper into the corner, into the shadows where nobody can see them, and the man – Sven – moves his hands away to start unbuckling his pants—

Keith doesn't stop kissing him, doesn't stop feeling the soft lips against his, pulling away in short lapses, taking in the fall of hair and the crinkle of the eyes and he looks so familiar – looks like someone Keith knows—

The lights are blown-out in his vision, the colors saturated and his head is light and his actions instinctive, no higher-plane cognition igniting in his brain as he lets his hands do what they want, feeling the hard tan skin under the shirt, the muscles and the fine coating of hair, nails grazing as Sven angles his head to kiss him again.

Somehow, they find a place suitable to fall into – Keith on top of the other, legs tangled, and through the haziness of his vision, the occasional flash of colored light that passed by almost every second, he can see the bare chest, the shirt pulled up and the pants down and the man's erection up against his stomach, brown-grey eyes flashing with heat under dark hair as the light sweeps by and Keith—

Lost in the buzz of the alcohol and the ale, in the numerous mugs he's bought, and he doesn't give a shit where Thace is or what's happening or where he is, he doesn't want to feel anything but the man under him—

Keith starts mouthing at the gold-tan skin, pulling out whimpers from the cocky lips and he doesn't care about the spittle he leaves behind, how his tongue falls flat on the skin and there's no art – no finesse – to it but he doesn't care, he just wants to feel good—

The man's hands find itself in his hair, running nails down his scalp and Keith shivers at the feeling, running down his back and into his dick and he breathes out his moans, feels them escaping and slithering up spit-covered skin.

"More, please," the man begs, and Keith whispers out a name – a name he hasn't said in a really long time – unaware and unconscious of it, eyes opening to peek at the red cheeks and the bright brown-grey eyes and the dark hair stuck to the skin of his forehead in sweat, and he gives Keith a needy grin – so reminiscent and so memorable that he stills for a moment, lips over the man's dick and he can smell it, the musk and the skin and the sweat – the ale on his mouth and up his nose—

Sven—

Sve—

Shiro—

He lowers his head and starts licking at it, taking it in, watching the brown-grey eyes close, a keening noise up his throat as Keith takes him in, wanting him to feel good, wanting Shiro to make that noise again—

He doesn't know how it's possible for Shiro to be here, under him, writhing at every movement of his tongue against the underside of the shaft in his mouth, but Keith doesn't ask and he doesn't think much on it—

It's been so long, and he's missed Shiro – missed him with an ache so hard, so difficult it was exhausting to keep breathing with it – and he just wants to feel good, wants Shiro to feel good, after everything—

After all the blood and the torture and the burn of where the barcode used to be, the mottled skin still searing into his brain every time he catches sight of it.

Shiro moans under him, guttural and loud and Keith's heart soars with the sound of it, hands reaching up to run the calluses down his sides, the nipples and the hard muscles. Shiro half-chuckles, half-mewls as the body writhes, the dick in his mouth hitting the back of his throat for a bit – causing him to back up, choking and for Shiro whisper an apology, voice warm and heated—

Keith hides it deep in his chest, desperate for it like air to a drowning man and he doubles his effort, wants Shiro to feel good – just as good, if only a quarter of how good he makes Keith feel, even when the ichor and the ugliness and the bile has piled up in his veins – and, for this moment, when the darkness seems less tangible and the play of lights of the cantina are too bright and too dimmed, and he can't think of crashing ships and rattling chains and the imprint of a boot on his stomach, all he can feel is Shiro in his mouth and his scent up his nose and though it doesn't smell like cedar, he's fine with that, it could be enough—

He bobs his head back and forth, intent to bring Shiro to the edge, to hear that familiar sound – that keening noise where his name breaks at the end, where Shiro looks at him, wide-eyed and blanking out, cheeks flushed and brilliant taupe glimmering with nothing but love and affection—

The thighs under him tremble, and the dick in his mouth continues to ram deeper into his throat, the hips stuttering, and his hands reach down to hold the other's, interlocking their fingers, feel Shiro's grip on his hand tight as he takes him all in, nose against the groin and humming around the muscle, tasting the salty tang of the precum dripping from the head, tongue lapping at the slit—

Shiro groans aloud, urging him faster and Keith obeys, would do anything Shiro asks him to, would do everything in a heartbeat and without question, anything to get rid of the ache in his chest at the thought of Shiro never wanting him ever again and he'll pay any price for it, groaning around the dick in his mouth as Shiro's leg brushes against his own straining erection.

Shiro breathes deeper and faster and starts panting, the moans constant as Keith takes him all the way in and he's close – Keith knows, can hear it in the reedy cry that escapes his throat, distinct even in the trumpet horns and the noise of the cantina – and he opens his eyes, wants to see Shiro come, the way he always does—

Eyes wide, Keith's name on his lips, sweat glistening under the lights and chest heaving, taupe eyes blank as he's lost in the pleasure—

But Shiro's eyes are closed and he's shaking his head from side-to-side, not the way he usually does and Keith takes him down again, trying to get him to open up—

Shiro finally opens his eyes and they lock with his, and Keith stares shamelessly at the erect nipples that are obvious when the light passes by, and the shine of the taupe in the dark and the dick in his mouth is rigid, precum in rivets and the hips are pushing deeper, choking—

Keith would let it, let it choke him until his own spit is dripping out pathetically, and he'd look wanton, without a single shred of shame and he'd be fucking fine with that—

Except a line of blood trickles down Shiro's forehead, and down his left eye. Keith stills, frozen, as the blood paints the eye crimson, the taupe disappearing into black, and it continues down an ugly line past his jaw and drips into the jacket below.

All arousal disappears from Keith's mind – the haze of alcohol coalescing with the fear growing as more lines of blood run down Shiro's face, and he's pulling back, stepping back, and he's not breathing.

Shiro's looking at him, covered in blood, eyes black – iris and sclera and all – and when Keith leans back, Shiro sits up, lips parting, only for more blood to gush out.

"N-no. No, no, stop." He says, the words tumbling out as his mind staggers to catch up, and he's on the ground, leaning on his hands and he's pulling himself away from Shiro, blood pouring out faster as he mouths at Keith, coming closer and he can't take his eyes off the bloody mask, the angry scarlet that the darkness couldn't hide—

A bloody hand reaches out to grab his and Keith staggers to a stand, and no sound comes out of his throat except for the sucked-in air and the ragged breaths as he pulls his hand out of the grasp, the indents of blood searing into his skin—

The music beats into his ears – magnifying and growing silent in intervals as the light flashes too bright and too dark in his vision – the people he's bumping into multiplying, their outlines hazy as he tumbles and gets away from Shiro, ignoring the cries of alarm as he almost falls into a Twi'lek serving drinks and he pushes her out of the way, has to get out, has to make it out, has to ignore the growing flood of blood that has not stopped gushing and it's pooling outward heading towards him, nipping at his heels—

Keith's repeating the same words – no, no, no – as he tumbles and falls to his knees in the dark of the cantina, not stopping, settles with crawling on his hands and his knees and ignores the press of people, aliens, what fucking ever they were against him until he's burst through the doors—

But he doesn't stop, doesn't stop running even when stars meets his gaze above in the open night, and he finally allows himself to fall to his knees, heaving on the ground.

He doesn't realize he's been screaming the entire time.

* * *

It always comes in a series of waves and motion.

The way Shiro smiles into the kiss, the gentle slant of his lips on Keith's, pulling him in, and Keith can't resist that – can't resist any thing Shiro does, from the star-lined taupe gaze to the fire-tinged curve of his smile and the warmth of his hand on his cheek, the thumb grazing his chin.

The right hand rests on his back, but the steel isn't cold – not that much – and the disparity of the twin touches sends lines of tension, electric, up nerves and down veins that Keith can't help but close his eyes, leaning close, drowning into the kiss.

Shiro looms over him, warm and alive, and the low light doesn't dampen the heat suffused into his skin as his lips part and Keith can't help but follow, lost in the sensation and the ribbons of taupe – pushing the cold away.

The heat starts at his mouth and it runs down through every line of skin until the cold is gone, replaced by the fire, stoked by Shiro's touch and the gentleness he brings with him and Keith can only hold on tight – arms locked around the other's neck – and Shiro whispers, faintly, gently, and it echoes like a supernova exploding in his chest. "Don't let go."

Keith can only hum in response, kiss him back as Shiro arranges his grip, and the metal hand falls to his butt, pulling him up – seamlessly – and gravity disappears under Keith's feet as he's lifted, the other hand moving to hold him up by the back and Keith's legs fold themselves around Shiro's waist, locking together—

Shiro doesn't let him fall.

He never does.

Keith lets go of gravity and holds on to the peripheries and the outlines of the star-sewn skin that was half-gold, half-tan and an entirety of taupe.

He doesn't let go of Shiro, smiles into the kiss as Shiro moves, steps taking him in a direction Keith doesn't mind not knowing, not when the demons are locked out, the nightmares shut from ever reaching him, their grubby hands cut off, burnt to cinders at the heat Shiro exudes.

There's a promise there – somewhere.

He'll never be cold again.

The thought brings the fire to his eyes, and he can only breathe deep as Shiro continues to kiss him, soft and tender – patient and unrushed – and his nerves are trembling, reacting to every motion and movement.

When Shiro lays him down on the bed, when the mattress hits his back – gently, softly, carefully – Keith gasps, hands pulling Shiro close as he moves from his lips to the line of his jaw and—

Shiro kisses the scar, the one up his cheek, that lingered on the edge of red, and the lips move up to the one under his left eye, the one from Lance's blaster, and Shiro doesn't ask about them, doesn't look at him with concern – his eyes are dark, partially cast in shadow from the moonlight but they look at Keith—

With heat and with love, and the emotions he had never expected to find after all this time.

Keith doesn't know what to say – his brain is mush, and it's been a long time coming, from all the alcohol and the blaster fire, he thinks – but what he does, what he can do, is reach up and tangle his fingers into Shiro's hair, and the breath of relief – the air seeming to come from the entirety of Shiro's form – echoes, and Keith can feel it fanning out against his cheek, lips pressed to the line of his neck.

Shiro moves – slightly, infinitesimally – and their eyes lock, forehead to forehead, the flecks of gold in the taupe and the ochre glitter. Keith finds the strength to pull up his voice from where it's fallen, crashed into the depths of where his heart and his soul is.

"Please."

It's one word.

One.

And Keith means everything in it.

And maybe Shiro understands – and who is Keith kidding, Shiro will always understand, because Shiro was not just one-fourth or half of who he is, but the entire mixer and the entire outline and the entire miasma of organ and blood and bone that built Keith from the ground up.

Shiro's eyes glisten in the starlight, and it's amazing – beyond belief, beyond description, beyond anything his mind can ever conjure – how the color shifts with every emotion and each of it leaves an impact the size of a crater inside Keith's chest as Shiro leans down, kisses him softly.

Keith's eyes close, and he's not in control of anything his body does anymore, letting Shiro take the reins of his life – he's been in the driver's seat far too long for one lifetime.

Shiro kisses him deep, the kind that traces the entirety of his mouth and his heart and the only thing to show for it is the quiet sighs pressed against his chin in the aftermath, when they run down along the line of his throat and to his collarbones—

And Keith shivers, his hands splayed at the sides, palms up, grasping at air—

Until he feels hands – one metal and one real – reaching up to lock with his, and it's typical—

Just fucking typical, that the only one thing Keith holds on to with the full force of a dying star was Shiro.

The left leaves his grasp and before Keith could miss it – before he could ache for it with a startling intensity, a magnitude that rocks his soul and gravity – the hand falls to the edge of his shirt, slipping under to run callused fingers up his abdomen, his entire body afire.

"There's—"Keith manages to say, whisper, and Shiro stops kissing down his collarbone to raise his head, looking at him with that familiar gentleness. He swallows before continuing. "There's a lot of ugly under there."

Shiro looks at him – fire-lined, gold-marked and blinding – and the smile that grows on his face is outshines every sun Keith's ever seen. "I don't believe that for a second."

The thing is—

You can't _lie_ here.

When you're looking into someone's eyes like this, when the expanse of all their emotions run through the sift of the color, the slight movement of the iris and the air fanning out of their nose and mouth in every whiff, it's impossible to lie—

And—Keith knows, if he can think, that Shiro never lies, not around him, never. Even after this. Even after what happened between them.

So, that must mean – in some small way, even if it's microscopic and practically impossible – Shiro must believe what he's saying, even when he's seen the scars, when he's felt it with his hands during the nights that kept Keith locked in his embrace, and if Shiro's seen the scars and felt the wounds – has memorized the ugliness and the malformation and can still say—

With such clarity and belief that he's not—

That he's not—monstrous.

That he's not—substandard.

Keith doesn't know what to say, and it's just stupid how his words run out when he can think so many – when he can get lost in the multitudes and the myriads of it, the words he wants to say but can't or the words that don't mean what he wants them to mean—

But he can't think anymore as Shiro leans up to kiss him softly, pulling back to ask. "May I?"

And the fact, the idea – the temerity, even – that Shiro asks, his thumb grazing the edge of the too-large shirt, and just—

Keith stares at him and he can't—the man he had gone to great depths for, the man he had stomached so much brutality and vitriol for, the man for whom he'd been willing to turn into a husk of who used to be, just to keep him safe—asking if he could remove the shirt—

Like he doesn't already have the entirety of Keith's heart in his hand—

Like he doesn't already own the entirety of Keith's existence the first time he had smiled at him—

Like he doesn't already occupy every space, every crevice and every nook available in his body, far too small to hold the sum of who Shiro was—

"Okay." He manages to get out, and he stops wondering how it's possible to speak when he's full – throat up, stomach in and every suffused vein – of so much want and love and heat when Shiro simply smiles, and it's like Keith's given him everything he ever wanted with that smile—

Slowly, the shirt is removed, his skin bare to the world as the thin cloth is raised, and Shiro helps him out of it, gently raising his other hand, the size making it easy to pull until he feels the neckline slide against his head and out and his chest is bare, every scar on display – for the galaxy to see and judge, criticize and spit on—

His hands ache to twist themselves over, trying to offer flimsy protection over the cuts and the grazes, the imprints of a boot and the mottled skin—

But Shiro looks at him with emotion, with taupe eyes glowing and Keith can't move, can only breathe around his mouth and up his throat as Shiro leans down, pressing a kiss against the scar over his heart. Keith bites his lip, unable to help the puff of air that escapes him when he feels Shiro's touch on his skin, gentle and loving.

He can't count the number of scars — the scabs and the wounds and the discoloration that continues to remind of what he is, what he's not and what he's lost — but Shiro doesn't seem to mind as he proceeds to slide his lips down every plane of his skin, uncaring if there's an ugly mark there or if it's one of the few spaces left that hasn't been touched by something hideous and disgusting, has made him lose more than what he had left.

Shiro moves to the bruise on his stomach — the one that had been an angry black and blue, large and in the shape of a human boot, and Keith can still remember the ache of his muscles as he's forced to spew out what he now knows was bile, can still remember the slam of it against his belly and his body curls around it — and the way Shiro blinks rapidly, far too fast to be normal, as he traces the faint discoloration, something that will never go away, and the way he leans down and breathes against it, and his kiss is so light, so faint that Keith can barely feel it, can barely notice it but his heart does, and it beats so hard and squeezes so tight that he sucks in air to keep it pumping.

The only thing Keith can use to describe the expression on Shiro's face is reverent, and that's not right, that can't be right — there's no reality that _that_ can ever be right — but it's there, it's real and it pushes his organs up his skin and his soul against the skin lining him down.

And he hasn't expected this—

Not this, not after everything. Before the mission to Eriadu, he'd be lying if he said he had never thought of this, imagined this — painted the images into his brain like a dying ember in the middle of Hoth's winter storms, desperate in the belief that it can never happen, and it can only end in heartbreak.

Because a man with the blood of the person he loves on his hands — when he was the reason why the blood was there in the first place — was not worthy to be dreaming of things, to wonder and hope that something so perfect, so beautiful and so agonizingly wonderful could still possibly happen.

And it had been a choice that had been heavy to make, a choice made in the flash of a second and the life one person — that one person who mattered more than anything else — versus his and the choice was both the easiest and the hardest thing to make.

But Shiro is here now, and he's real and this is not a fantasy — not a dream, and not the made-up delusions of a man pushed to the brink of insanity as he's beaten over and over in a cell aboard a Star Destroyer.

He feels the press of Shiro's tongue on his nipple, the graze of his teeth and Keith hisses — all thought wiped from his mind, all of his nerves and receptors, senses, heading towards the direction of the man over him and below, hand in his and the other running down his side in gentle strokes.

Keith's lost in the sensation, lost in the touches all around his body, the glide of Shiro's tongue over his skin — around his navel and up the skin of coating his ribs, and he doesn't make a sound even when the absence of weight — the unnatural thinness of his body, the horrid, disgusting shape of his ribs sticking out — is obvious, even when there's nothing but skin and bones and just an empty bag of all the broken pieces of himself he can still carry.

Shiro's eyes open, taupe in slits beneath dark brows and thick lashes, and Keith can only look down, his lips parted as he sees the red-pink tongue smoothe over the skeletal protrusions, lapping over each rib sticking out — and it feels weird, and wet and just—

The way Shiro does it so gently, as if each part of his skin, each atrocious sliver of it, was something important, something so fragile and so irreplaceable that he can only give it the most loving, the most unfailingly ardent touches and caresses, as if adding more pressure — adding more strength would damage it, would break him—

And Keith knows, a part of him is completely aware that Shiro wouldn't need to hurt him to break him, that all he needs to do is to worship every centimeter of his body with his feather-light touches and the smooth run of his lips and Keith can already feel his eyes gleaming, feel the sting growing behind, and it won't take much — and it never takes much — for him to be overwhelmed—

Overwhelmed with just the intensity, the blinding relentless shine and glimmer of Takashi Shirogane, barrelling into his life and changing it — forever — with a few simple words, something trite and short and immaterial in the cause of things but it wasn't immaterial, and the words weren't nothing—

Not to Keith. Not to the broken man in the cave with his back against the wall and hoping on the almost nonexistent candle of hope that he can still live, that there was something more to life than the carnage and the brutality and the violence, that he was more than just the death and the destruction — the overhead fire of blasters and the scarlet-white explosions covering the ground in spiderwebs of all the lives he's eliminated — and that he was more than all that, hands covered in blood, even if it was Shiro's blood.

Not to Keith.

It had been everything. It was everything. It _is_ everything, and Shiro here, in the gentle ever-glow of the starlight seeping through the curtains, dark hair almost black in the night, and gentle taupe eyes setting him on fire with gold tendrils as they take all of him in, a hand on the line of his pants.

"Is this okay?" Shiro asks, an understanding smile on his face — Keith swallows, because he sees no judgment, no pity, no disgusted looks toward his body and his scars and the lines of the boot that can still be seen in a certain light on his stomach.

He can't take his eyes off Shiro's, can't look away from the unrepentant acceptance and the unwavering affection in them and it's just—how is it even possible for someone to feel this strongly, be filled with so much emotion that it became impossible to breathe, to think and for his entire body to function?

Shiro's smile doesn't fade, not when he leans over, reaching close to place his thumb on his cheek and press a kiss against his lips — and it's not just the mash of skin, but something deeper, something more than commitment, more than acceptance, more than faith.

"I'm not going anywhere."

And Keith —

It's not just the ironies falling away, or the caustic wit dying, or the paper-thin barriers that he's placed around him in so many ways, in a million copies that Shiro can pull down with something simple as a smile and non-descript words — and it's not just the fact that his heart is somewhere beyond Naboo's gravity, and maybe he's been floating all this time, and Shiro's been holding on to him, keeping him grounded.

Because the words Shiro says, the way he says them, is not lost on Keith.

It's not — because Keith's long memorized and ingrained, playing like a permanent holo-projector into the caverns of his mind, the times they've made love, before, even through the blackouts and the days and weeks passing by in half-lucid, half-drunken tirades, trying to forget the hurt and the anger and the aching, and he remembers the way they've made love, the way Shiro had said the same words and Keith had realized then—

That there would be no one to occupy his heart other than Takashi Shirogane.

The certainty he had then, the fire that had blazed deep and scorching, licking against the inside of his heart until it was black and sooty but right—

Remembering the fire and the unending heat, the white-hot flames and the lightning arc through his veins—

It bursts out of his chest, covers his entire body with it, emblazoned and embossed and engraved — permanent.

"I know." He says it — repeats it — and it's not just the irony, or the echo of it, or the simplicity. It's the truth — the entire truth — and it's something that he'll never be able to lie, to cover up and avoid, because here, when Shiro's hands slowly pull the pants off his legs, the material gliding over his skin until he's bare and everything is in display—

The cuts and the bruises, the burn marks and the pin-prick dots where needles have been stabbed, the black and blue bruises where he's been kicked and prodded with electro-rods—

But Shiro only leans down to press his lips against the side of his knee, his cheek pressed against it, eyes closed as if enamored, in the presence of something wondrous and divine and Keith's far too gone for sanity or for comfort, and his arousal is distinct and apparent, pushing against his stomach and—

He'd be ashamed, and he'd be embarrassed and he'd feel like pulling the earth around him to cover his shame and disappear, when his dick is hard and red and straining while everywhere around it, the skin and the limbs and the planes, are all mapped with badges of his choice, the price of what he had to do.

Keith doesn't feel the familiar head of shame rearing its ugly head at him — and he doesn't feel the earth burying him in mounds, until he's breathing grit and swallowing stone.

Shiro leans back, and Keith's eyes run down the muscles of his chest — the familiar abdomen and the strength and power of them, underneath the gold-tan skin, the bulge of his biceps and just the size of Shiro — his entirety — and how he's not just larger than life and singular and incredible but he also captures Keith's entire vision, and everything else is wiped out in shades of taupe and ochre—

He doesn't say anything, but Shiro doesn't need to hear him, to feel and hear the need to be equal — to not feel like he's the only one drowning, the only one with his head under the water on the shallow end of the ocean — because Shiro's hands are around his own sleep pants, pulling them down and Keith's eyes feast on the expanse of gold and tan—

The lines of muscle down his thighs, Shiro's own erection rigid, and it's both familiar and new, foreign and a homecoming.

And Keith's not sure — as Shiro climbs over him, gentle and careful, the slide of his bare skin against Keith's — about what's going to happen tonight, if there is something going to happen.

He's stopped expecting things to go his way — be they the good or the bad — and he's long let himself be carried away by so many things, his fears and his nightmares, the choices he's had to make and the fates he's decided for others, straining for that one thing he can never have — to decide for his own destiny—

But, it doesn't feel like that, tonight, and maybe it's not just tonight but every night that follows, every night that comes after, for each night that he feels like needs it —

Because Shiro is over him, warm and expansive, and Keith could curl into a ball and be wrapped in soft, gentle heat but he doesn't, he only reaches up to run his hands down the sides, feel the weight of his skin and the muscles dormant under and Shiro leans down to kiss him, lets him feel for whatever and however long he wants to —

Keith parts his lips, allows Shiro inside and he gently pulls him down, pulls the entire weight of Shiro on him—

Because he needs to, he needs to feel the heat of a star against his skin, feel Shiro's legs tangle with his, and his hands rise up to slide their fingers — skin and synthetic, and both of them real — in between Keith's, locking them together.

Shiro smiles into the kiss, breaks a way to press another one against his jaw before he leans back up, wanting to taste Keith again and Keith lets him, can't do anything to stop him and it's not like he wants to, not when Shiro makes him feel like he's—

Free.

Perfect.

Shiro falls into him and — in this cathedral where there's only the soft hiss of their breathing and the glide of their skin — Keith holds him close, hands barely reaching each other over the expanse of his back, and it feels good — validating, real.

He doesn't say anything — about how he's gone so long and so far that he's almost forgotten what it was like to be real, to feel the earth under his feet and the rain in his hands and the sun in his face and that, all this time, what he's been feeling was the cold film of his own isolation and his own fears weighing him down, locking him to the boulder as the tides pull him under.

Because Shiro is here, and his kiss is a lifeline and a benediction, and Keith's stopped thinking of how lost he had become that he's unaware, ignorant, of the way he's been drifting in a well of his own making, his head ducked down and unable to see the rope floating just above him.

Shiro reminds him that he doesn't have to be purely innocent, that he doesn't have to ache for the blank slate of a red-free hands and the wiped-out ledger full of mistakes. Shiro reaching back to pull his leg over his waist, their groins pressed together, pulling groans of pleasure from their lips — it reminds him that he doesn't have to crawl through litters of broken glass shards and empty cartridges and the white-hot glow of shattered crystal emitters, and that he doesn't have to push his bare hands into the sharp points, piercing more than just skin and drawing more than just blood.

He wraps his legs around Shiro's waist, presses against the other, his hips undulating, and the frissons turn into lightning strikes and the strikes turn into tremors of pleasure up every vein and nerve and cell in his body, until he's shaking all over, his gasps swallowed by the lips over his.

In the silence of the bedroom, decorated only by the wind creeping in through the curtains and the sucked-in breaths and pants between their lips and the echo of their names, pressed into skin and tattooed with the graze of their lips — no demons come, no nightmares linger and no ghosts stick to his skin.

His vision is painted in swathes of gold and tan, ochre and taupe and it's funny, and mesmerizing, how the purple-mauve that clashes and coalesces with it isn't hideous, isn't terrible and isn't horrid — the colors don't make sense, the splotches are too dry and too wet and the balance is all over the place, but it feels right. It feels kriffing right.

The air escaping his lungs and out of his mouth slithers down his skin, with the sweat and the heat, and just the grasp of Shiro around him and on him, the movement of skin against skin — the reactions and stimuli shot and firing at synapses in reverse and his gravity and balance contorts, unable to right itself, but it feels right. It feels kriffing right.

Shiro's lips burn into his skin — leaves marks and trails invisible to the eye, but distinct and permanent against the hair standing on end, in the traces of the shapes and the words that he whispers and engraves into him and over him and all around him — and Keith can only hold on, press his own lips against the other, marking him in some way, because Shiro being his is something he hasn't allowed himself to think of, to believe, for so long, and now that it is happening, that he can say it with certainty, it leaves him heady and weak, but it feels right.

All of it feels right.

And it's forever—

Keith wants it, forever.

He wants it to be right, forever.

He wants to wake up in the morning and feel Shiro's arms around him, holding him tight and keeping him safe. He wants to cross through the living room and wrap his arms around Shiro's waist, pressing his lips against the shoulder blades as they watch the sunrise over the Theed skyline. He wants to hear Shiro's laugh in the cockpit and in his ears as they both rush — fast and reckless — over the green plains and into the ethereal sky above, until they hit low gravity and see the stars for their entirety. He wants to feel the rush of the salty seawater of Corellia against his feet, and Shiro by his side and around him, and they're painted in gold — like how they've always been, how they've always been meant to be.

He wants Shiro in the sunset and rising sun and the fleeting nighttime and every second in between.

"Keith," Shiro whispers his name, brokenly, feather-light against the skin of his jaw, and the muscles under his hands bunch and tighten, and the way Shiro shivers against him, taut and ready to snap, his entire form going rigid as the friction turns maddening and something pulsates and grows wet between them—

Has him whispering Shiro's name before taking those lips and allows himself to let go.

He knows Shiro wants forever, and is willing to go whatever mile and inch that he could, on whatever Keith has to offer and it doesn't matter if it's a touch of his hand or the whisper of his name, if it's the next inch or mile or the next galaxy past theirs, Shiro will take it and Keith would want him to—

Keith doesn't worry about what he can offer, what he can pay back for how far Shiro is willing for him and wanting of him — there's no price and no exchange, no gamble that requires sacrifice for this, because even from the start, in that cave, when he hears the first few kind words he's ever heard in a long time—

When Shiro had reached out to him, caught him as he fell—

His heart, soul and his body, all of it—

Shiro doesn't need to ask for it, no need to play his cards, because Keith's already given in, and he knows — with unwavering certainty — that Shiro will never let him go.

* * *

His eyes are hurting – sore and tired, burnt from staring too long at the sunset in the distance. The seas are painted in amber, edged in scarlet and rose-gold and the spires of Coronet City seem almost like maple in the distance, shadowed and translucent, eclipsed by the brightness. The waves rush towards the shore, bubbling against his legs, the warmth seeping in through his pants and his boots, surging softly against his weight, before retreating, pulling back.

Shiro's lost count of how long he's been standing, watching the sunset – watching the colors of blue change to mauve, the white rays turn gold and scarlet and he's long lost count of how many times he's done this, how many times he's stood in the water and waited – and how all of it has become familiar, second nature, cyclical.

"Shiro."

He doesn't turn at Hunk's voice, his arms are listless by his sides, and the wind breezing through his hair pricks at his eyes. He refuses to blink.

If he does – if he closes his eyes for even a second, even for a quarter of that – he might miss a starfighter rushing over the sunset, small at first – infinitesimal – growing larger by the second, hurtling home, and he'll miss the streak of crimson and gold fumes rushing behind, always unable to catch up and he'll miss—

He'll miss the fighter landing beside him, on the shore, its engines flagging and sputtering before dying out, and he'll miss the smell of fuel and the thrum of heat that would bite at his skin from the exhaust, still too hot, still echoing with bursting through the atmosphere.

If he blinks, he might miss the fighter's cockpit opening, and miss the dark hair and the bright purple-mauve eyes finding his.

He can't blink, and he can't look away. He's been waiting here for so long, what's a little more?

"Shiro," Hunk calls, voice low and pleading. Shiro's hands tighten into fists, nails pressing deeply against the skin of his palm. "You have to let him go. He's not coming back."

Shiro doesn't answer him, and he doesn't pay attention the spike of anger that the words bring up—

They don't get it.

They don't get it at all.

He can't blink.

He can't miss Keith.

He has to be here, he has to wait for him here.

A part of him says he's unfair for thinking that of his men – to think that they can't understand the magnitude of Keith abandoning him – and it's unfair because he knows that they cared for him, that they thought of him as more than a friend – a brother, a comrade – and they thought of him as family, this little family of his that was one half of his entire world.

But they don't get it—

They don't understand that Keith's known nothing about holding on, and he's known nothing about being held on to. They don't understand that Keith's gone so long and lost – drifting on sea – his life and his decisions wrung painfully out of his grip, an Imperial flag waving over his head as he's forced to kneel and submit. They don't understand that Keith's only known loss and abandonment and hopelessness – has only known what it was like shut his own hopes and his own desperation and to breathe through the blood and the tears as he's pulled under.

Shiro can't abandon him.

The right hand hurts to move, but his grip is tight and it trembles against his thigh.

Nobody's ever seen the person beneath the mask, beneath the dark hair and the haunted purple eyes. Nobody's seen past the blaster rifle in the trembling grip, or the screams that are locked in his throat or the hollow of his voice when he wakes from a nightmare, shivering violently in Shiro's arms.

Shiro can't abandon him.

If he does, who will Keith turn to when he comes back? If Shiro's not here, standing at the beach by the cliffs, waiting for him on Corellia's shores, when Keith does come back – where would he go when he finds nobody waiting for him?

"I can't." He answers, voice gritty – could barely run past his teeth. "I can't leave him, Hunk."

"Shiro—"Hunk's voice borders on understanding, even if it's lined in heart-broken anger. Shiro doesn't blink and he doesn't close his eyes but his vision blurs and he can't – he can't miss Keith. He sucks in a breath and tries hard – demands – to still the tears. "You can't wait for him forever."

 _He promised me forever._ The thought lances through him and, kriff, he bites his lip – and he's already familiar with the way it catches on the old wounds, the way it tears them open, throwing all the effort of healing. _He promised me forever._

And he's angry and spiteful and bitter, filling his veins with poison and tar, and the thought of Keith has his rage spiraling out but they can't compete, they can't overpower just how much it _hurts._

It hurts—

His hand hurts, and his chest hurts and his entire body just hurts—

All his nerves are set aflame, and they crackle and lash at the veins, and his hands tremble – even when only one can feel the ice and the fire, when he can only reach up with one to claw at his chest, trying to pull the organ that's beating too loudly and too angrily against his bones and his ribs.

The tears don't run down his face, but it settles in his throat and it deafens his ears and it erases the sensation of the water lapping at his feet, at the sand crumbling under him, gravity pulling him down.

"I love him, Hunk." Shiro says – the words escape his chest and his lips and it's just—

It's the first time he's ever admitted to someone other than Keith himself, the first time he lets the magnitude and the gravity of how much he feels for the ghost in his arms, how the burgeoning ire and the furor that makes him want to grab something and throw it until it breaks, makes him want to rear his hand back and punch the ground until his bones shatter, how the spite and bitterness can't outpace the desperation and the ache in his chest that wants Keith back, that's struggling to feel his own north star back in his arms again—

And that he'd do anything – _anything –_ to see that starfighter appear in the horizon.

 _I'll fucking tear my other hand off. I'll fucking blow my own engines myself. Just bring him back to me._

He begs the sunset and Corellia's waves and the specter of what's no longer there.

There's no sound, no response – no familiar rushing of a starfighter flying low over the horizon, the waters bubbling to meet it and he can only feel his own breathing, tangible like ice and stone, struggling to crawl up his throat—

Hunk's hand makes its way to his shoulder and squeezes _hard._

And maybe the others already know—

Maybe they suspect more than Shiro can ever give them credit for, suspect that there was something more – something stronger, sturdier – to the clasped hands that linger too long in each other's grasp, or the way Shiro can finish Keith's sentences or the way Keith moves seamlessly with him when they fly together, not a single word spoken.

Maybe they already know that when Shiro and Keith arrive at the bridge, later than the rest, and Keith's hair mussed and Shiro still feels sweat stick to his jaw, the rest must have already figured out why they're panting and flushed.

When Shiro calls Keith 'soldier' and the way Keith responds with a cheeky 'sir' – when Shiro was only starting to see the brightness and the glimmer of a newborn star in the purple-mauve eyes- and he turns to see Pidge smiling up at him knowingly, or turn to Lance rolling his eyes or Hunk chuckling – maybe they've already known where this was going before Shiro knew it himself.

When Shiro and Keith meet with the others, and the pendant Shiro has – the one his father had given him, when he was alive – when the pendant is hidden under the neckline of Keith's shirt but the chain is distinct, and Pidge sees it but doesn't say anything – when she only reaches out to hug him close and smile up at him in that serene, secretive manner of hers – maybe it had been pointless to hide it all along.

Hunk doesn't say anything – and it's just typical of him to be like that, silent and supportive as Shiro breaks. It just escapes him – all of it, the words and the fears and the pain and the choked-up sounds like there's soot and ash in his throat, there's loss and desperation mingling with the crippling realization that he had gambled far on something that was absent, and the belief that he'll always have this – this gaping hole in his chest that only Keith could ever fit into.

He had—

He had so much hope. He had so much faith. He had so many dreams, so many fantasies – all of them painted in beige and pastels, all of them lined in purple-mauve eyes and dark hair and the blinding smile that managed to eclipse everything in Shiro's vision until all he sees is Keith and nothing else. He had so many dreams – all under gentle sunlight, in the lines of rumpled bed sheets and Keith's lashes when he's asleep, in the quiet laughter that escapes his lips as Shiro attacks his neck and his shoulder with kisses, the tangle of their fingers and the press of their bodies against each other, friction and heat broiling over until their gasps are shared, their heartbeat in sync.

He doesn't know when it all fell apart.

"I love him too much—"The words are choked, covered in spit and the excess of what's trying to crawl out of his heart. "I can't. I can't let him go."

 _I don't know how._

The Corellian sunset doesn't answer him – and the waves continue to push and pull in their own cyclical dance. He's alone, six feet under the waves and he doesn't know how to pull up for air.

* * *

The river rushes in pastels of color – brought on by the dawn and the sunrise – and the waters rush gently, lapping against the rocks turned slate gray in time, the earth pooling at the sides and the gentle waves of flowers blooming between the grass blades.

Keith's feet is in the water, bare, and what he expects to be frigid turns out to be warm – soothing – the motion of the currents against his skin feels good. Relaxing.

Shiro has his own feet in the water, his thigh pressed against Keith's, and his arm around his waist and Keith doesn't hesitate in allowing himself to lean into the comforting grasp.

Shiro's fingers play with the ruffles of his shirt by the waist, and there's a quiet humming coming from him – directionless, faint, but real and Keith wants to close his eyes and press his cheek against the other's collarbone and fall into the sound but he also wants to watch the light paint the sky in so many colors, so many flashes and swathes that it'll take forever for him to memorize them.

But if he's here, and Shiro's here, then forever doesn't sound bad.

It doesn't sound bad at all.

Shiro shifts, and Keith feels the press of his lips against his neck – not in an attempt to arouse, but to soothe, to feel the chain of Shiro's pendant on his skin, the miraculous survival that had reminded Keith of what he had been fighting for.

"What are you thinking?" He asks, voice low and Keith turns to him – to Shiro, and he looks at the lines of age around the taupe eyes, the fall of his dark hair over his forehead, and the curl of his lip. The cut of his jaw isn't as sharp as it had been, back then, but Keith can still remember and can still find the tan that varies in tone – from being out in the sun, from old wounds long recovered, from the places that no light could reach.

Keith hums, and the answer is stupid and superficial, but it's true. "Just how happy I am."

The eyes do not move, but Keith sees the emotion shifting – the flecks of gold on the taupe shining – and he sees the way they gleam, the way they cut through every sinew and bone and skin on Keith's body, cuts him down to the very core – to that small flame that's grown stronger as each day passes – and Shiro smiles, and it stokes wild and buoyant, flourishing under the gentle and accepting smile.

"I'm really happy, too." Shiro answers – and Keith swallows, and he knows—

That he'll never really be whole.

Keith knows that, sometimes, the world takes so much out of you – piece by piece, every splinter off the stone-white of the bone and every thread unravelling off your muscles – that it's hard, it's impossible, to ever fill out the crevices and the craters that's left gaping, hollow and empty. It doesn't matter how many times you try to stuff some semblance of normalcy – the things that distract you, the things that put you under so you don't have to think anymore – how it, sometimes, doesn't fit the shape of what's absent and what's gone, it just doesn't fit right and you live with it – for the rest of your life – the feeling of something incompatible and biting inside your chest.

Keith knows that the demons and the nightmares and the ghosts that clung to his skin will always be there – in the shadows, in the nooks of where his vision can't reach, in the recesses of his mind, in the flicker of a shadow in the peripheries of his gaze – and that, no matter how many times he tells himself that he's fine, that he's okay, they'll always find a way of breaking the lock and escaping through the cracks.

He doesn't think he'll ever be completely, wholly fine – and it's a realization that's grounding, that's validating – because it doesn't compartmentalize all the shards he's had to crawl through, all the twinges of his heart that had it pumping empty cartridges and blaster fuel, and all the times he's called for help and only heard his own voice echoing back—

It doesn't take what he's had to go through, the eternity he's spent in hell just to rise back from the ground up, and think of it as something trivial.

He knows he'll need help.

Somehow, the admission isn't terrifying.

Somehow, the truth isn't groundbreaking.

Somehow, it feels like he's taken a step forward with that.

But those are plans for later – for the days and hours that will come soon, and those are plans that he doesn't have to go through alone.

Shiro is beside him, an arm around his waist and Keith can hear his heart beating under the shirt – the melody of a song that's imprinted itself on to his skin, it's practically a part of him.

The sky glows purple – a familiar purple, just a second before it flashes mauve and turns rose-gold and scarlet and a thought comes, and the pain the reminder brings with it is seared in the gentle echo of a gruff laugh, and a quiet admission echoing in his ears—

 _I hope you're proud of me, Thace._

* * *

"Just leave me here," Keith whispers, voice cracked, and his eyes are closed. The pain running up his arm has long past burst through the threshold and he can only feel numbness. The darkness has long closed in on him, and he can't see anything but the memory of the clone-chip burning – destroyed.

The record of Shiro's smile – the fluctuations of color of his taupe eyes, shifting from brown to gold – the gentleness of his touch and the ease of his smile and just an entire manifestation of what Keith had held on to, through all the days of torture—

The Galran doesn't say anything as he continues to run. The motion has Keith bumping his head against the purple neck – if he could see, that is – as Thace's arm continues to hold him up over his shoulder like a sack—

"Save yourself," he whispers – too tired for anything, for speech, for pain, for life. He wants to fall into the peaceful slumber that lingered in the edges of his vision, and he wants the weight on his chest to disappear, for gravity to pull him higher and over until he's weightless in space, nonexistent. "I'm not going to make it anyway."

He can't feel the blood that he knows is pouring down his arm. He can't feel the skin curdling and aching but he knows it's red, it's ugly and that if the fire won't kill him, the blood loss will.

It didn't matter.

Shiro was safe.

It was the only thing that ever mattered.

The Galran doesn't listen, and Keith can't find the strength to keep talking, not when his hearing is shot and he's trembling all over and he only feel his heart in his chest and the motion and physics of being moved and being carried. A part of him wonders – and thinks – for a reason why the Galran wants to keep him alive, intent and desperate to get him aid.

Keith doesn't really think much of himself, anymore.

All he wants is to never be hurt again.

* * *

The waves are clear when they wash against the shore, trying to climb higher with each push, the sand turning dark as they're submerged, the splash rushing to his ears as they continue to pull.

The sky is a bright blue – clear of any clouds, of any blanket of grey on the horizon, and there's nothing difficult, nothing choking and suffocating in the lazy tumble of the waters against the shoreline, and the sunlight beating on his back and on his skin isn't painful – it's comforting, warm.

Coronet City shines – silvery, wispy in the distance.

Shiro walks along the shoreline, sand caking the soles of his bare feet but he doesn't care, not when Keith's standing in the distance, arms crossed and the wind rushing through his hair. It's unkempt, untethered and it waves and dances with every draft.

It's long now, almost down his shoulder blades but it suits him – suits the newfound freedom in the other's gaze, the absence of a world-heavy weight on his shoulders. His hair fans out in wavy tresses, curls and Shiro's hands – both skin and synthetic – ache to reach up and run the fingers through them, and he can already imagine the downturn lashes as Keith closes his eyes, humming contentedly.

There's something unfurling in his chest – more powerful than the flame and the embers that had grown the moment Keith had reached out to clasp his hand in Yavin, not letting go.

A new hope.

It arcs through his skin and over and under, looping about bone and muscle, until Shiro feels it nipping and sticking, a fan of heat and connection that repels the cold and the doubts and the fears – anchored in the security and faith he has in Keith's words, and in themselves.

Keith turns to him at his approach, as if unconsciously aware of Shiro's actions – every single one of them – and Shiro doesn't doubt, not anymore – not for a single second – just how much Keith knows about him – every single detail – and it doesn't feel like he's under a microscopic gaze.

A hand raises, palm open and the mottled skin on the wrist is visible but Keith looks at him with a smile—

And Shiro reaches out, locking their hands.

"Do you think we'll be alright?" Keith asks – his voice is soft, a line of tension coalescing with the shift of the wind as it sweeps over the blue-green seas. Shiro keeps silent, thinking, trying to find an appropriate answer to his question – in the light of the trauma and the tragedy, the broken bottles and spilled ale and the nightmares that has him screaming in his sleep, and this bumbling new hope that refuses to waver.

He looks to Keith, and the scars on his face are healing, the one on his neck seemed to turn lighter as each day passes and Shiro knows it's just whim and hopeless wishes on his end or maybe it isn't, maybe it's just the hope and the faith healing what had been hurt, but the way the purple-mauve of Keith's eyes glitter and the smile on his face is tried and tested but _real_ , and the beating of Shiro's heart isn't painful and hollow, but whole—his lips find the answer all on their own. "Yes. We have each other again."

Keith ducks his head, and the run of crimson across his cheeks is a treasure that not even Corellia's golden sunset can outshine. His eyes are gleaming – liquid and warm – when he leans close to rest his head against Shiro's shoulder. "I'm okay with that."

"Yeah," Shiro breathes the word out – and they both face the line beyond, the horizon that promised infinity and possibility, and there's no soot in his mouth, no smoke up his throat and nothing burns in his eyes.

In the horizon, a starfighter rushes by – scarlet and white – heading home to Coronet City and Shiro can't help the urge to squeeze their joined hands, turning his head to press a kiss on Keith's head.

"I'm okay with that, too."

* * *

 **FIN**


End file.
